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« 


THE 


WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 


£torg  of  f  obe  anb  ^rt  in  %  Actual. 


BY 

J.  B.  WIGGIK 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED. 


BOSTON: 
PUBLISHED  BY  J.   B.   WIGGIK 

17  BROMFIELD  STREET. 

1888. 


COPYRIGHT,  1888, 

BY 
J.  B.  WIGGIN. 


BOSTON 
S.  J.  PARKHILL  &  Co.    PRINTERS 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  THE  TRIBE  OF  BARTLETT 5 

II.  ROY  GOES  TO  BOSTON 14 

III.  ROT  GOES  ON  A  FOOL'S  EBB  AND 24 

IY.  ROT  WALKS  OUT 31 

V.  ROT  PROVES  HIMSELF  A  HERO 37 

VI.  THE  CHURCH  WITH  THE  GOLDEN  ROOSTER  .    .  42 

VII.  DULL  WEATHER  IN  HAT  TIME 49 

VIII.  HUCKLEBERRIES 56 

IX.  THE  HUNT  FOB  BEAUTT 62 

X.  A    LAWSUIT   PBE VENTED    AND   A    FARMER'S 

VISIT 68 

XL  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  JIM  CAMEL 77 

XII.  SORROW  TURNED  TO  JOT 89 

XIII.  ROT  AT  THE  QUINCT  HOUSE 97 

XIV.  LIFE  WITH  SOME  FLAVOR  IN  IT 104 

XV.  IT  is  GOOD  TO  HAVE  A  MAN  IN  THE  HOUSE  .  Ill 

XVI.  ROT  GOES  HOME  TO  THANKSGIVING   ....  117 

XVII.  ROT  AGAIN  OCCUPIES  BOSTON 124 

XVIII.  WILL  GLANCE  HAS  A  DRUNK  .......  132 

XIX.  ROT  TAKES  A  STUDIO 137 

XX.  THE  ART  COTERIE  is  LAUNCHED 144 

XXI.  A  DISTURBING  ELEMENT 157 

XXII.  SAM  ELLET  IN  LOVE 163 

XXIII.  SAM  AND  MART 170 

XXIV.  DR.  A.  C.  SMITH  AT  THE  ART  COTERIE  ...  174 
XXV.  ROT  COMES  TO  GRIEF 188 

3 


2047015 


4  CONTENTS. 

XXVI.  GLORIOUS  BOSTON 206 

XXVII.  A  FRIEND  IN  NEED 223 

XXVIII.  IN  THE  STUDIO 235 

XXIX.  HAIL  TO  THE  CHIEF 247 

XXX.  HOY  DINES  OUT ....'.  268 

XXXI.  A  CASE  AT  LAW 282 

XXXII.  A  RAINY  DAY 303 

XXXIII.  THE  GREAT  ENGLISHMAN 314 

XXXIV.  THE  ARTISTS  OF  BOSTON 331 

XXXV.  A  WHITE  MAN 359 

XXXVI.  SOLOMON  IN  ALL  His  GLORY 365 

XXXVII.  A  CONSUMMATION 376 

XXXVIII.  UP  IN  A  BALLOON 386 

XXXIX.  AOAMENTICUS,   A  PILGRIMAGE 395 

XL.  GRAND  TABLEAU     ....  .  404 


THE  WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 


CHAPTER   I. 

THE    TRIBE    OF    BARTLETT. 

IT  was  the  last  week  in  June,  and  New  Hampshire 
never  looked  handsomer.  In  old  Straff ord  County,  not 
far  from  the  river  and  the  head  of  tide  water,  among  all 
the  alternations  of  hill  and  valley,  field  and  orchard, 
meadow  and  woodland,  are  scattered  many  farms,  which 
prove  the  truth  of  the  old  Saxon  definition,  that  a  farm  is 
a  place  for  provision.  And  few  among  them  all,  that 
day,  for  beauty  and  productiveness,  for  all  sweet  home 
qualities,  were  more  worthy  of  the  name  than  the  Bart- 
lett  homestead.  The  house  stood  a  little  in  from  the 
road.  It  had  a  well-to-do,  opulent  look.  It  was  ample 
in  size  ;  white,  with  green  blinds ;  with  piazza  in  front, 
and  each  column  hidden  with  a  trellis  bearing  queen-of- 
the-prairie  roses,  sweet  honeysuckle,  Virginia  trumpet 
flower,  and  woodbine,  —  the  latter  going  beyond  all 
bounds,  away  on  the  roof  of  the  ell,  at  its  own  sweet  will. 

A  few  steps  from  the  front  door  began  the  flower  gar- 
den, and  slightly  sloping  away  from  the  house,  it  in- 
sensibly resolved  itself  into  herbs,  vegetables,  summer 
squash,  sweet  corn,  and  early  potatoes,  in  the  most  pro- 
fuse manner,  until  the  house  and  its  grounds  stood  re- 
vealed to  you  as  a  perfect  realization  of  the  wedding  of 
Use  and  Beauty. 

5 


6  THE  WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

The  ample  barn,  farther  back,  on  the  right  of  the  pic- 
ture, was  plainly  seen  against  the  dark  green  of  the  large 
orchard  beyond ;  and  afar  off,  over  field,  pasture,  and 
woodland,  might  be  seen  — many  miles  away— the  great 
blue  hill  in  Stratford,  and  Blue  Job  in  Farmington.  In 
the  distance  on  the  left,  was  a  pretty,  rolling  country, 
scattered  apple-trees,  and  a  few  airy  and  graceful  elms. 
Nearer  still,  a  broad  field  of  grass,  which  the  breeze  was 
moving  in  waves,  which  promised  well  for  haying ;  and  in 
the  foreground,  on  the  left,  about  five  acres  of  corn,  in 
long  rows,  well  set,  hoed  clean,  and  lastly,  on  the  last  two 
rows,  the  side  nearest  the  house,  two  men  —  Mr.  Guy 
Bartlett,  forty-five  years  of  age,  healthy  and  hearty,  the 
owner  of  the  hundred  and  fifty  acres ;  and  by  his  side, 
hoeing  the  advance  row,  his  son  and  only  child,  Royal 
Bartlett,  in  his  twenty -first  year. 

Mr.  Bartlett  was  an  honest,  Christian  man.  It  is  the 
highest  praise  I  can  give  a  human  being.  Some  novels 
are  only  a  receptacle  for  the  memoirs  of  villains.  This  is 
not  that  kind  of  a  book.  I  have  known,  and  do  now 
know  some  splendid  people ;  I  seek  such,  and  cultivate 
them ;  and  without  undue  publicity,  I  will,  with  their 
knowledge  and  consent,  put  them  in  this  book. 

"Whether  the  young  man,  Roy  Bartlett,  was  worthy  of 
as  high  praise  as  his  father,  you  can  find  out  by  reading 
this  book ;  for  I  am  going  to  tell  you  more  about  him ; 
and  he  had  some  queer  experiences.  Certain  it  is  that 
they  both  believed  in  the  good  things  of  this  world,  and 
they  both  believed  in  each  other.  Roy  Bartlett  was 
healthy,  hearty,  good  sized,  and — I  hesitate  to  say  — 
good  looking.  Handsome  blue  eyes,  brown  hair,  a  light 
golden-brown  mustache,  red  lips,  pleasant,  winning 


THE  TKIBE  OF  BARTLETT.  7 

ways  made  him  a  fine  ideal  of  the  Bartlett  tribe,  as  I 
have  known  them. 

"  Well,  father ;  this  finishes  the  second  hoeing  of  our 
corn,  and  it  looks  well.  Not  a  hill  is  missing.  Of 
course  the  crows  got  a  few  hills,  but  I  transplanted 
enough  to  fill  their  places,  and  I  think  you  will  be  satis- 
fied with  the  harvest." 

"  It  looks  like  it  now,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett. 

"  Now,  father,  I  have  something  to  say  to  you.  Our 
farm  work  is  well  up  to  the  season.  Nothing  is  suffering. 
A  little  more  work  in  the  garden,  and  we  are  all  ready 
for  haying.  You  know  I  am  nearly  twenty-one  years 
old.  And  you  know  that  I  have  always  liked  drawing 
and  pictures  of  all  kinds.  From  the  time  that  I  have  ex- 
pended, and  the  interest  that  I  have  taken  in  art,  perhaps 
you  have  thought  that  I  might  make  some  use  of  it,  at 
some  time." 

"  Yes,  Roy,  I  have,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett. 

"  Now  here  is  my  proposition.  I  never  shall  go  far 
away  from  you  and  mother." 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  his  father. 

"But  I  wish  to  go  to  Boston  to-morrow,  perhaps  back 
at  night,  or  may  be  the  next  day,  to  ask  advice  and  get 
evidence  as  to  whether  it  is  safe  and  wise  for  me  to  try 
to  get  a  living  out  of  art,  especially  oil  painting.  Per- 
haps I  cannot  decide  it  at  once,  and  perhaps  I  shall  try 
for  a  while  and  relinquish  it ;  but  at  all  events  I  can  re- 
turn to  the  farm  and  make  a  good  living  from  that.  If 
New  Hampshire  habits  and  gumption  won't  win,  then  I 
shall  consider  the  fault  in  me.  Are  you  willing  I  should 
try,  father?" 

"  Yes,  Roy,  I  am.     Of  course  I  had  rather  have  you 


8  THE  WILD  AKTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

with  me  every  day ;  but  that  is  not  quite  reasonable.  So 
do  what  you  think  is  best." 

"Thank  you,  father.  But  do  not  think  for  a  moment 
that  I  can  consult  my  own  interest,  to  the  neglect  of  my 
father  and  mother.  We  have  improved  the  farm  every 
way.  It  is  in  good  order  and  producing  finely.  You 
own  it  free  and  clear,  and  have  a  good  amount  at  interest. 
And  you  have  given  me  a  good  chance  too.  I  have 
made  some  money  on  the  patches  of  ground  I  have  culti- 
vated for  myself,  on  apples,  and  on  the  colts  I  have 
raised  and  sold.  So  my  experiment  will  be  no  expense 
to  you." 

«  Oh,  well,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett.  "You  can  have  help 
if  you  need  it.  Whom  have  we  but  you,  Roy  ?  " 

"  I  know  that,  father.  But  I  do  not  believe,  with  my 
health  and  strength,  in  wasting  nuch  time  or  money  that 
brings  no  return.  I  will  go  to-morrow  and  look  over  the 
chances.  Next  week  I  will  tune  up  the  mowing  ma- 
chine, to  mow  around  the  buildings,  nnd  after  the  Fourth 
of  July  we  will  cut  the  grass  as  fast  as  it  gets  ripe  and 
ready." 

"We  finish  our  work  just  in  season  for  dinner,"  said 
Mr.  Bartlett.  "The  sun  just  begins  to  light  the  west 
side  of  the  house,  so  it  is  about  a  quarter  to  twelve. 
There !  didn't  I  guess  right !  There  is  your  mother  on 
the  front  steps.  And  she  is  blowing  the  horn." 

Roy  swung  his  hat  in  answer,  and,  following  the  path 
that  wound  through  the  thick  clover,  they  went  to  the 
welcome  dinner. 

Royal  Bartlett  inherited  his  first  name  as  well  as  his 
last.  His  mother's  maiden  name  was  Marian  Royal.  Of 
good  size,  cheerful,  healthy,  and  efficient,  she  was  all  the 


THE   TRIBE    OF   BARTLETT.  9 

wife,  mother,  and  queen  needful  for  one  family,  and  the 
sufficient  ruler  of  heart  and  home.  The  table  was  spread 
for  four  persons. 

"  Come,  folks,"  said  Mrs.  Bartlett,  "  the  dinner  is  all 
ready." 

"  But  where  is  Sam  ?"  asked  Mr.  Bartlett.  "  He  ought 
to  be  here.  He  must  have  heard  the  horn,  and  he's  not 
the  boy  to  neglect  his  dinner." 

"  Xo,"  said  the  housekeeper.  "  Sam  Ellet  is  doing 
what  he  thinks  ought  to  be  done ;  but  here  he  comes 
now."  And,  after  an  interview  with  the  purnp,  and  pol- 
ishing his  red  cheeks  on  a  crash  roller  towel,  he  ap- 
peared smiling  at  the  table. 

Sam  Ellet  was  an  orphan,  now  eighteen  years  old.  He 
had  been  fed,  clothed,  sent  to  school  in  winter,  and 
made  happy  as  a  member  of  the  family  for  several  years, 
for  what  he  could  do.  Lately  he  had  received  large 
pieces  of  silver,  and  good-sized  bank  notes,  new  and 
crisp,  of  the  Strafford  Bank,  which  he  had  judiciously 
deposited  in  the  Dover  Savings  Bank.  He  had  proved 
that  he  could  keep  money,  and  was  to  be  trusted.  Fur- 
thermore, he  had  learned  to  despise  a  man  that  could  not 
keep  a  cent,  and  he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  he  could 
not  "stomach"  anything  that  was  not  "bone  honest" 
and  truthful.  So  Sam  was  trusted  and  loved.  He  was 
one  of  the  family,  and  he  made  friends.  He  was  proud 
to  be  in  the  Bartlett  family.  The  Bartletts  were  good 
livers.  The  name  is  old,  and  I  doubt  if  her  majesty's  is 
older.  At  the  Norman  conquest  a  Bartlett  settled  on 
the  Arun  River,  near  the  Earl  of  Arundel's  castle.  The 
present  M.  P.,  who  represents  the  name,  can  I'ide  fourteen 
miles  on  his  own  land,  and  the  name  now,  and  for  a  thou- 


10  THE   WILD  ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

sand  years,  is  a  part  of  England's  history,  coming  down 
to  us  through  soldiers  and  statesmen,  scholars  and  gentle- 
men, through  Josiah  Bartlett,  the  first  signer  of  our 
Magna  Charta,  the  great  declaration,  and  later  he  was 
chosen  the  first  governor  of  New  Hampshire,  —  for  this, 
and  all  family  and  personal  reasons,  these  Bartletts  rejoiced 
in  the  bluest  blood,  and  a  healthy  family  pride,  that, 
because  they  came  of  good  stock,  therefore  it  was  their 
duty  and  their  pleasure  to  transmit  it  quite  as  good  or  a 
little  better  than  they  received  it.* 

So  Guy  Bartlett  and  his  family  felt  that  if  they  behaved 
as  well,  they  were  as  good  as  anybody.  And  they  lived 
wisely  and  well.  So  Sam  Ellet  called  them  "  Uncle 
Bartlett "  and  "  Aunt  Bartlett,"  and  felt  himself  bound 
to  uphold  the  honor  of  the  family. 

"  Did  you  hear  the  horn,  Sammy  ? "  asked  Mr.  Bart- 
lett. 

"Yes,  sir;  I  did.  But  I  was  almost  done  with  the 
last  pile  of  rocks,  and  I  thought  I  had  better  finish  the 
job.  So  it  is  all  done,  and  I  think  you  will  like  it." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,  Sammy.  We  will  look  it  over  care- 
fully once  more,  and  now,  or  when  the  grass  is  grown, 
we  can  use  a  mowing  machine  over  the  whole  back  field. 
It  will  make  easy  work  of  haying." 

*  Those  who  are  interested  in  the  Bartlett  name  can  see  "  Genea- 
logical and  Biographical  sketches  of  the  Bartlett  family  in  England 
and  America,"  by  Levi  Bartlett  of  Warner,  N.  H.,  1875.  Since  this 
was  written,  and  before  printing,  an  event  has  happened  that  I 
gladly  record  here.  On  July  4,  1888,  a  magnificent  bronze  statue  of 
Hon.  Josiah  Bartlett  was  inaugurated  in  Amesbury,  Mass.,  where  he 
was  born.  It  cost  many  thousand  dollars,  and  was  the  generous  gift 
of  Mr.  Jacob  R.  Huntington.  a  wealthy  citizen  of  Ainesbury.  It  was  a 
splendid  deed  to  do,  and  it  was  splendidly  done  that  day.  And  no 
man  stands  higher  or  purer  as  patriot,  statesman,  or  beloved  physi- 
cian than  my  ancestor,  Doctor  Josiah  Bartlett. 


THE  TKIBE  OF  BARTLETT.  11 

"  Now,  mother,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett,  "  where  do  you 
suppose  Roy  is  going  to-morrow?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered.  "  Perhaps  up  to  see 
Aunt  Sarah." 

«  No.     Farther  than  that." 

"Where?"  she -asked,  anxiously. 

"  He  is  going  to  Boston  to  see  about  learning  to  paint 
pictures." 

"Is  he  going  to  leave  us  to  be  a  wild  artist?"  she 
asked,  in  dismay. 

"  Oh,  that  is  too  bad !  "  said  Sam  Ellet. 

"  Not  as  bad  as  you  think,  mother,"  said  Roy.  "  I 
shall  never  leave  you  and  father  for  long  at  a  time.  I 
shall  go  to  the  city  in  the  morning,  and  perhaps  return 
at  night,  or  next  day  at  farthest ;  and  as  for  being  wild,  I 
do  not  think  I  shall  go  to  the  bad  at  all." 

"  Well,  I  hope  not,"  she  added ;  "  but  from  some  speci- 
mens that  I  have  seen,  it  seems  as  if  art  was  inseparably 
wedded  to  poverty,  beer,  and  tobacco.  I  do  not  think  it 
need  to  be  so,  but  perhaps  I  may  find  it  better." 

"  You  surely  will,"  said  Roy,  "  for  there  are  as  pure 
and  noble  men  and  women  in  art  as  in  anything.  In- 
deed, it  is  said  Saint  Luke  was  an  artist.  And  some  of 
the  old  masters  painted,  as  Michael  Angelo  builded  on 
Saint  Peters,  for  their  soul's  salvation.  See  Fra  An- 
gelico's  pictures,  painted  on  gold  leaf.  He  prayed  as  he 
painted.  No,  mother.  Art  is  not  degrading.  And  it 
ought  to  be  ennobling.  But  it  is  all  in  the  man.  He  it 
is  that  ennobles  the  work.  Now,  mother,  don't  worry. 
I  shall  be  none  the  worse  for  art,  and  I  hope  art  will  be 
all  the  better  for  me." 

There  was  a  pause. 


12  THE  WILD  AKTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

"  Yes,"  said  Sam.     "  But  what  will  the  farm  be  without 

you,  Roy  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  Sammy.  But  the  farm  will  not  lose  me 
at  all  for  the  present,  and  not  for  long  at  a  time  in  the 
future.  Wouldn't  it  be  nice  to  visit  me  for  a  few  days 
in  Boston  ?  " 

"Oh,  it  would  be  splendid,"  said  Sam.  "I  had  not 
thought  of  that.  But  it  would  be  lonesome  here." 

"Now,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett,  "we  will  stop  borrowing 
trouble,  and  not  try  to  cross  a  bridge  until  we  get  to  it. 
And,  to  make  it  all  the  prettier,  we  wrill  put  the  garden 
in  order  this  afternoon,  for  I  think  there  are  some  green 
squirrels  in  it." 

"Green  squirrels?"  said  Sam,  in  wonder.  "  What  are 
they?" 

"  Weeds,"  said  the  farmer.  "  Daniel  Webster  wrote 
home  to  his  man  John,  at  Marshfield,  '  Take  good  care  of 
my  mother's  garden.'  It  is  good  advice." 

Right  well  the  Bartlett  family  followed  it  that  after- 
noon. Later,  when  the  weeding  was  finished,  the  supper 
put  where  it  would  do  the  most  good,  the  stock  cared  for, 
and  the  chores  all  done,  the  lord  of  that  home  walked  in 
that  garden  in  the  cool  of  the  day  with  his  helpers,  and  he 
saw  as  much  beauty  and  found  as  much  peace  and  com- 
fort as  is  ever  found  in  this  bunchy  and  peculiar  planet 
that  is  all  the  world  to  us,  at  least,  for  the  present. 

Disdaining  horse  and  carriage,  Roy,  after  a  very  early 
breakfast,  and,  as  much  as  anything  to  put  an  end  to  too 
much  vigorous  thinking,  he  waved  his  hand  in  farewell  to 
the  family,  who  came  to  the  piazza  to  see  him  off,  and  he 
took  "shank's  mare"  for  a  walk  to  the  station. 

It  is  a  New  Hampshire  superstition   not  to  watch  a 


THE   TRIBE   OF   BARTLETT.  13 

friend  out  of  sight  else  they  may  never  return.  Of  course, 
no  one  believes  it,  but  they  observe  it  all  the  same,  and 
when,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  Roy  looked  back,  he  saw 
no  one  looking,  but  gazing  earnestly  for  a  moment  at  the 
landscape,  which  was  so  much  to  him,  he  exclaimed,  "It 
is  a  beauty,  indeed  it  is  a  beauty.  I  hope  I  shall  one  day 
do  it  justice  in  a  picture."  Then  he  turned  and  continued 
his  journey  in  a  run. 

Mrs.  Bartlett  wore  a  sober  face  that  day. 

"  Sammy,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett,  "  our  work  is  well  up  to 
the  season.  Have  you  anything  you  wish  to  do  to-day  ? 
You  can  have  a  part  or  all  of  to-day,  if  you  wish,  only  be 
back  at  milking  time." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Sam,  "  I  should  like  to  hoe  my  water- 
melons, and  that  patch  of  land  you  gave  me,  and,  as  it  is 
just  cloudy  enough,  I  will  go  up  to  the  brook  this  after- 
noon and  see  if  I  can  get  a  string  of  trout,  so  if  Roy 
comes  home  to-night,  and  I  think  he  will,  we  can  have 
something  he  likes  for  supper." 

"  Good,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett,  "  and  mother  will  like  it 
too."  So  Sam  had  his  day  to  himself.  With  lines  enough 
and  to  spare,  with  hooks  enough  to  lose  a  few,  and  a  tin 
mustard-box,  that  used  to  be,  but  now  containing  a  good 
supply  of  angle- worms,  Sam  came  home  with  a  string  of 
trout  that  \\ould  have  delighted  a  city  chap.  I  know 
what  I  am  talking  about,  for  many  a  good  fry  I  have 
taken  out  of  the  same  brook,  and  this  novel  is  a  good 
deal  more  of  a  history  than  you  think  it  is.  Heretofore 
it  had  been  considered  that  Roy  could  take  the  finest 
string  of  fish,  but  Sam  had  got  his  thinking  cap  on,  and 
had  fished,  like  Simon  Peter,  to  some  purpose.  And  Roy 
went  to  Boston  to  seek  his  fortune. 


CHAPTER  II. 

EOT   GOES   TO   BOSTON. 

WHEN  a  young  man  leaves  the  old  home,  whether  it 
be  high  or  low,  and  drops  into  a  city  where  he  is  nearly 
or  quite  a  stranger,  there  is  a  feeling  of  all-over-ishness, 
that  comes  over  him  which  almost  amounts  to  desolation. 
But  the  poet  says,  "  This  world's  mine  oyster,  that  I  with 
sword  will  open,"  and  that  was  Mr.  Royal  Bartlett's  feel- 
ing as  he  stepped  into  Haymarket  Square  and  walked 
up  town.  "J.  Sardou,  Artist,  Room  39,"  he  saw,  a 
modest  sign,  on  the  upper  end  of  a  line  beside  a  door. 
He  went  up  four  flights  and  knocked. 

"  Come  in,"  said  a  man's  voice. 

"  Can  I  look  at  your  pictures,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.     But  I  have  not  many  in." 

Roy  did  look.  There  were  not  many  finished,  and  he 
could  hardly  tell  what  was  finished  and  what  was  not. 
Landscapes,  cattle  and  figure  pieces,  and  the  usual  variety 
—  points  of  merit  in  all,  some  quite  good.  But  nearly 
all  had  the  feeling  that  a  little  more  was  needed  to  make 
it  good  and  complete  the  art  of  the  picture.  Roy  praised 
the  noble  quality  of  this  group  of  oaks,  the  form  of  this 
waterfall,  the  sky  effects,  and  what  he  could  without  vio- 
lence to  truth  ;  said  he  was  much  obliged  for  the  kindness, 
and  was  about  to  go. 

"  Do  you  paint,  sir  ?  "  asked  the  artist. 

"No, sir;  I  have  drawn  some,  I  love  art  and  am  always 
14 


KOY  GOES  TO   BOSTON.  15 

interested  in  pictures.  Perhaps  I  may  paint  some  a  little 
later." 

"  Don't  do  it,  sir ;  however  much  you  may  like  art  or 
get  the  itch  of  paint,  don't  do  it.  You'll  be  sorry  if 
you  do." 

"Why,  sir?" 

"  Poverty,  self-denial,  hope  deferred,  and  perhaps  star- 
vation. I  do  not  mean  that  I  am  starving  now,"  added 
the  artist,  "  but  I  have  been  very  hungry.  Oh  no !  art  is 
not  in  much  demand.  You  had  better  let  it  alone." 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Roy,  "  I  am  obliged  for  your  kind 
word,  and  will  consider  it.  It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  see 
your  pictures.  What  price  should  you  get  for  that  bright 
moonlight,  sir  ?  " 

«  Fifty  dollars." 

"And  that  cluster  of  oaks?" 

"One  hundred." 

"Does  not  that  pay?" 

"  Oh,  but  they  don't  sell." 

"  Would  they  not  at  a  less  price  ?  " 

"  No  they  wouldn't  (fiercely).  If  a  man  wants  a  pic- 
ture he  will  have  it.  But  the  minute  you  put  your  price 
down  you  are  gone.  You  can  never  get  it  up  again. 
And  pupils  are  no  better.  At  the  first  of  the  season  I 
put  out  ten  dollars  in  advertising  for  pupils.  And  they 
came,  sometimes  a  dozen  in  a  day,  looked  in,  looked  over 
the  pictures,  praised  some  of  them,  said  they  would  see, 
and  that  is  the  last  of  it.  No,  sir,  take  a  friend's  advice 
and  let  art  alone." 

Roy  thanked  him  and  passed  out,  but  as  he  did  so  he 
heard  the  artist  remark  in  a  stage  whisper,  "  I'll  bet  the 
fool  won't  let  it  alone." 


16  THE  WILD  ARTIST  IX  BOSTON. 

And  the  young  man  laughed  for  the  first  time  to-day. 
He  had  seen  enough  in  this  one  interview,  to  prove  that 
a  different  course  would  bring  a  different  result,  and  he 
approved  of  the*  judgment  of  the  average  art  pupil,  that 
sought  an  atmosphere  not  quite  so  heavy  with  grumbling 
and  tobacco. 

He  next  called  at  a  picture  store.  There  were  many 
attractive  pictures  in  the  window,  and  among  others,  two 
New  England  home  scenes,  one  summer,  the  other  winter. 
They  were  much  like  his  own  home,  with  cattle  and  all 
the  evidences  of  life  around  the  house  and  barn.  Over 
the  door  the  name,  long  and  well  known  in  Boston, 
"  C.  Drew,  Pictures  and  Frames."  He  went  in.  Several 
people  were  looking  at  the  pictures  around  the  store. 

"Are  you  Mr.  Drew?"  asked  Roy. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Will  you  please  tell  me  who  painted  those  landscapes 
in  the  window?" 

"Certainly;  Mr.  Titcombe  painted  them,  and  see  the 
crowd  around  them.  Why !  a  little  while  ago  a  man  said 
he  saw  one  of  those  cows  go  down  to  the  Avater  and 
drink." 

"  They  do  look  almost  natural  enough  to.  What  is  the 
price  of  them  ?  " 

"Twenty-five  dollars  each.  They  are  eighteen  by 
twenty-six  inches." 

"Does  Mr.  Titcombe  have  pupils?" 

"Yes,  indeed.  He  paints  all  sorts  of  pictures,  colors 
photographs,  and  I  don't  know  what  he  don't  do  in  art." 

"  Does  he  make  money  ?  "  asked  Roy. 

"Of  course  he  does.  I  sell  a  great  many  of  his  pic- 
iires,  and  I  send  him  pupils  and  custom.  Oh -yes,  Mr. 


ROY   GOES  TO   BOSTON.  17 

Titcombe  can  get  rich  if  he  will  take  care  of  his  money. 
He  gets  enough.     Here  is  his  card.     Look  in  and  he  will 

o  o 

show  you  around." 

"I  thank  you  for  your  kindness,  Mr.  Drew,  I  have 
often  heard  of  you,  and  I  am  glad  to  meet  you.  Now  let 
me  ask  you  a  question.  I  have  studied  drawing  as  an 
amateur  for  years.  Sometimes  artists  have  seen  my  work 
and  praised  it.  Now  I  wish  to  try  my  luck  in  color.  I 
can  take  a  poor,  worn-out  farm  and  make  it  shine.  This 
is  what  I  wish  to  know :  Can  I,  with  not  much  genius 
and  only  a  fair  amount  of  ability,  but  a  strong  love  for 
art,  —  can  I,  with  faithful  industry,  strict  temperance, 
good  management,  and  hard  study,  become  a  fair  artist 
and  get  an  honorable  living?" 

<j  O 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  have  no  doubt  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Drew.  "  No 
doubt  at  all,  for  the  qualities  you  mention  almost  always 
succeed  and  compel  success." 

"Then  I  A. ill  try,"  said  Roy,  "and  very  faithfully  too, 
before  I  give  it  up.  And  now  I  will  use  that  card  and 
call  on  Mr.  Titcombe. " 

Roy  did  so,  and  to  his  surprise  he  found  the  art  school 
in  four  large,  high,  connected  rooms,  and  a  dozen  pupils 
at  work.  Any  amount  of  pictures,  mostly  in  oil,  a  few 
in  india  ink,  sepia,  crayon,  and  pastel.  He  was  soon  at 
ease  with  the  artist. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mr.  Titcombe,  "  almost  any  one  who 
loves  art,  with  fair  ability  and  hard  work,  can  soon  begin 
to  produce  something  that  will  sell,  if  you  do  not  ask  too 
big  a  price.  '  But  art  is  long  and  time  is  fleeting,'  and 
to  be  a  good  artist  is  a  life  work.  Your  drawing  will 
help  you.  Before  I  went  to  painting  I  studied  drawing. 
I  spent  one  whole  winter,"  said  Mr.  T.,  "  all  my  evenings 


18  THE  WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

and  spare  time,  in  trying  my  best  to  copy  J.  D.  Harding's 
lithograph  work  on  trees." 

"Now,  just  look  here,  Mr.  Bartlett,"  as  he  opened 
a  laro'e  folio  near  him.  "Please  examine  these  sheets, 

O 

title-page  and  all.  One  is  my  work,  and  the  other  is  the 
press  which  I  copied.  Tell  me  which  is  which."  Roy 
looked  first  at  one  and  then  at  the  other,  then  from  one 
to  the  other,  again  and  again.  Then,  as  Mr.  Titcomb 
regarded  him  with  a  half  smile,  Roy  answered,  "  I  think 
the  sheets  in  my  right  hand  are  the  hand  work." 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Mr.  Titcomb. 

"  But,"  said  Roy,  "  it  is  the  finest  imitation  of  a  litho- 
graph title-page,  and  of  tree  drawing,  that  I  ever  saw.  I 
would  not  have  believed  it  possible." 

Roy  engaged  lessons.  A  dollar  each  for  three  hours. 
Pay  cash  every  time.  Stop  when  he  preferred  to.  So 
Roy  made  a  good  friend  and  kept  his  independence. 

"  Have  you  looked  into  the  art  stores  much  ? "  asked 
Mr.  T. 

"  Not  much." 

"  Suppose  you  look  into  Child's  and  into  Williams 
&  Everett's  ;  they  always  have  fine  pictures." 

Roy  thanked  him,  and  continued  his  calls.  He  made 
the  pleasant  acquaintance  of  Mr.  A.  A.  Cliilds,  and  he 
kept  it  long  afterwards.  He  called  at  Williams  & 
Everett's.  It  was  a  treat.  There  happened  to  be  a 
large  and  fine  collection  on  exhibition,  and  it  was  a  rev- 
elation. Specimens  of  the  best  American  art.  Bier- 
stadt,  T.  Hill,  T.  Moran,  De  Haas,  Bellows,  Sontag, 
Gerry,  Geo.  L.  Brown,  Champney,  Shapleigh,  Ordway, 
and  I  don't  know  how  many  more.  A  kind  word  of  en- 
couragement from  Mr.  Williams  completed  his  happiness 


ROY  GOES   TO   BOSTON.  19 

and  his  day's  work.  He  had  covered  the  ground  faith- 
fully, and  found  an  affirmative  answer.  The  five  o'clock 
train  bore  him  home.  He  was  still  busy  at  thinking 
of  the  day  and  what  should  come  of  it,  when  he  ap- 
proached his  home.  The  whole  family  met  him  on  the 
piazza. 

"  I  thought  you  would  come,  Roy,"  said  Sam  Ellet. 

"  We  are  all  ready  for  you.  Supper  is  on  the  table," 
said  Mrs.  Bartlett.  "  I  guess  you  are  hungry.  What 
did  you  have  for  dinner?  " 

"  I  have  not  had  any,"  said  Roy.  "  I  was  so  busy 
that  I  did  not  think  of  it  until  it  was  time  to  take  the 
train." 

A  large  dish  of  fried  trout,  with  warm  biscuit  made 
from  New  Hampshire  wheat,  and  many  other  farm  pro- 
ducts, flanked  by  a  pitcher  of  cider,  amount  to  good 
eating  and  drinking,  and  Roy  paid  his  hearty  respects  to 
it,  for  he  needed  it. 

"  You  are  awful  good,  Sammy,"  said  Roy. 

"  Yes,  I  thought  you  would  like  some  greased  pins  for 
supper,"  said  Sam. 

"  Yes,  Sammy.  But  these  brook  trout  are  too  good  to 
be  called  greased  pins.  The  large  ones  we  dissect,  but 
the  little  ones  are  brown  and  tender,  and  we  eat  them 
bones  and  all.  Mother  can  beat  the  world  at  cooking 
fish  and  wild  game." 

"  Yes.     And  everything  else,"  said  Sam. 

"  Stuffing,"  said  Mrs.  Bartlett. 

"You  are  right,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett,  "and  of  the  finest 
kind.  The  fact  is  we  ought  to  count  up  our  mercies  and 
our  reasons  for  thankfulness,  and  be  thankful  accord- 
ingly. Now,  just  think,  there  is  no  clearer,  cooler, 


20  THE  WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

whiter,  purer  water  than  our  old  well.  And  there  is  a 
living  spring  not  far  off.  The  farm  yields  more  fuel 
than  we  can  use.  Our  apples  and  pears  are  in  abun- 
dance, and  New  Hampshire  fruit  far  excels  Western 
fruit  in  flavor  and  eating  quality.  And  see  what  biscuits 
mother  has  made.  No  Western  wheat  ever  had  so  good 
a  flavor.  See  these  potatoes  !  Fine,  mealy,  and  of  best 
quality.  Can  anybody  beat  mother's  butter  and  cheese  ? 
How  about  our  pork  and  beef  ?  How  about  our  lambs 
and  fatted  calves  ?  How  about  our  milk,  eggs,  and  yel- 
low-leg chickens?  I  tell  you,  boys,  there  is  no  better 
place  to  live  in  than  in  New  England.  There  is  plenty 
here." 

"  The  winters  are  pretty  tough,"  said  Roy. 

"  Yes,  I  acknowledge  that,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett.  "  But 
take  the  evidence  on  the  other  side.  Last  year  the 
deaths  in  British  India  were  twenty-three  thousand  by 
poisonous  snakes  alone,  to  say  nothing  of  wild  animals. 
Our  winter  saves  all  that.  Nothing  is  safe  from  the 
ravages  of  white  ants.  Our  winter  saves  all  that.  Take, 
for  instance,  the  island  of  Singapore.  Thirty  miles  long, 
ten  miles  wide,  and  ten  miles  out  at  sea.  Yet  the  loss 
by  its  one  city  of  a  hundred  thousand  people  is  one  life  a 
day,  through  the  year,  by  tigers  alone.  But  our  winter 
saves  all  that.  We  have  no  cholera,  no  Yellow  Jack, 
very  little  malaria,  in  fact  I  know  of  none.  I  think  New 
Hampshire  folks  have  as  much  to  be  thankful  for  as  any 
people  on  earth  ;  you  know,  the  Psalmist  thought  of  His 
loving  kindness  and  tender  mercy.  Indeed,  I  think  so 
well  of  my  native  State  that  I  wrote  my  opinion  in  a 
poem  not  long  ago.  Perhaps  you  will^be  pleased  to  hear 
it.  Now  we  have  a  little  time  after  supper,  and  I  will 


ROY   GOES   TO  BOSTON.  21 

read  it  to  you,  It  won't  take  long,  and  need  not  hinder 
mother  very  much.  Here  it  is."  And  by  the  light 
of  the  evening  lamp,  Mr.  Bartlett  read  his  tribute  of 
love  to 

"NEW  HAMPSHIRE  HILLS. 

» 

"  Dedicated  to  all  who  are  proud  that  they  were  born  in  the 
Granite  State. 

"  New  Hampshire  Hills,  fond  memory  comes  to  me, 
And  bids  me  twine  a  loyal  song  for  thee ; 
Where  sunshine  falls  and  evening  dew  distils, 
Where  summer  glory  crowns  New  Jlampshire  Hills. 

"  New  Hampshire  Hills,  that  catch  the  morn's  first  beams, 
And  linger,  bright  with  evening's  latest  gleams ; 
Sweet  be  his  verse,  and  pure  his  thoughts  who  wills 
To  sing  thy  praises,  O  New- Hampshire  Hills. 

"New  Hampshire  Hills,  I  turn  to  thee  with  pride. 
Have  not  thy  children  for  thee  lived  and  died  ? 
That,  while  the  earth  its  destiny  fulfils, 
Freedom  may  reign  upon  New  Hampshire  Hills  ? 

"New  Hampshire  Hills,  thy  children  proud  and  free 
In  every  clime,  on  every  land  and  sea,  — 
While  love  and  gratitude  each  true  heart  fills, 
Unite  to  praise  thee,  O  New  Hampshire  Hills. 

"  New  Hampshire  Hills,  forever  grand  and  true, 
Forever  towering  to  the  heavenly  blue ; 
His  patriot  heart  with  new  devotion  thrills, 
Who  builds  his  altar  on  New  Hampshire  Hills. 

"  New  Hampshire  Hills,  what  summer  pilgrims  throng 
Where  health  and  beauty  verify  my  song  • 
Land  of  sweet  waters,  and  of  laughing  rills, 
O  home  of  beauty  —  bright  New  Hampshire  Hills. 


22  THE  WILD  ARTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

"  New  Hampshire  Hills,  thy  fields  and  forests  wide 
No  tigers  keep,  no  lurking  dangers  hide  ; 
No  serpent  stings ;  there  no  malaria  chills, 
But  health  and  safety  crown  New  Hampshire  Hills. 

"New  Hampshire  Hills,  thy  children  far  and  wide 
Look  back  td'  thee  with  high  New  Hampshire  pride ; 
No  land  so  fair  thine  own  place  ever  fills, 
To  win  their  love  from  thee,  New  Hampshire  Hills. 

"  New  Hampshire  Hills,  where'er  thy  children  roam, 
What  good-cheer  memories  call  them  back  to  home ; 
What  loyal  work  a  mother's  heart  instils, 
What  mother's  love  lights  up  New  Hampshire  Hills. 

"  New  Hampshire  Hills,  where'er  my  feet  shall  stray, 
Among  thy  pleasant  scenes,  or  far  away, 
I  turn  to  praise  thee,  and  my  spirit  wills 
My  grateful  song  to  thee,  New  Hampshire  Hills. 

"New  Hampshire  Hills,  with  love  and  Sabbath  bell 
Guard  thou  the  dust  of  those  I  love  so  well, 
Forevermore.     Though  death  my  own  heart  stills, 
God  bless  my  home,  my  dear  New  Hampshire  Hills."  * 

When  it  was  finished,  Roy  asked,  "  Can  I  have  a  copy, 
father?" 

"  I  want  one,  too,"  said  Sam. 

"  And  I  will  take  the  original,"  said  Mrs.  Bartlett. 

"  You  have  got  him,"  he  answered,  "  and  I  guess  you 
will  all  get  copies  later ;  but,"  he  added,  "  it  is  nine 
o'clock,  and  I  think  we  had  better  read." 

The  light-stand  with  the  Bible  and  hymn  book  was 
set  forward.  Mother  Bartlett  read  the  old  hymn,  — 

*  This  poem  was  read  before  the  N.  H.  Club  of  Cambridge.  Mass., 
June,  1885. 


ROY  GOES   TO   BOSTON.  23 

"  Thus  far  the  Lord  has  led  me  on  ; 
Thus  far  his  power  prolongs  my  days : 
And  every  evening  shall  make  known 
Some  fresh  memorial  of  his  grace." 

Then  Mr.  Bartlett  read  the  one  hundred  and  third 
psalm.  "Bless  the  Lord,  O  my  soul,  and  all  that  is 
within  me  bless  his  holy  name."  Then  two  of  the  four 
knelt,  while  one  poured  out  his  soul  to  God,  in  the  rich 
offering  of  a  thankful  heart.  How  many  times  I  have 
heard  it !  And  blessing,  peace,  and  health  comes  of  it. 

Then  half  an  hour  later,  "  tired  Nature's  sweet  restorer, 
balmy  sleep"  had  conquered  them  all.  Father  and 
mother  in  the  great  bedroom  ;  the  boys  upstairs ;  Grimal- 
kin, the  great  Malta  cat,  in  the  arm-chair ;  the  pelican, 
Roy's  fancy  name  for  his  mother's  very  knowing  canary 
bird,  on  his  perch ;  and  Canis  Major,  the  brown  and 
white  Newfoundland  dog,  asleep  with  one  eye  open,  on 
a  thick  mat  on  the  piazza. 

When  the  moon  at  its  full  looked  down  upon  it  all,  it 
seemed  to  repeat  the  eternal  promise.  "  Peace  I  give 
you.  My  peace  I  leave  with  you;  not  as  the  world 
giveth,  give  I  unto  you." 


CHAPTER  III. 

KOY  GOES  ON  A  FOOL'S  ERRAND. 

THE  next  morning  was  a  June  morning  in  all  its  glory. 
About  five  o'clock  there  was  a  noise  of  opening  doors,  and 
Canis  Major  came  pitching  upstairs  to  the  boy's  room, 
tickled  almost  to  death  to  see  them.  It  was  his  usual 
morning  call,  and  a  most  effectual  way  of  waking  the 
boys ;  for  he  would  be  recognized  ;  he  would  not  be  sup- 
pressed ;  he  would  love  them  and  kiss  them,  and  the 
shortest  and  sweetest  way  out  of  it  was  to  let  him  ;  as  a 
woman  marries  a  man  whom  she  wishes  was  a  safer  and 
better  fellow,  just  to  get  rid  of  him.  But  Canis  Major 
was  safe  and  true,  and  he  was  welcome.  And  besides  it 
was  milking  time,  and  while  Mother  Bartlett  fought  a 
duel  with  the  cooking  stove,  and  won  it,  too,  the  three 
menfolks,  each  at  the  side  of  his  chosen  cow,  began  a  solo, 
ting,  ting,  with  the  streams  of  milk  as  they  hit  at  the  bot- 
tom of  each  tin  pail.  It  was  a  splendid  success,  this  June 
morning,  "  in  the  height  of  feed,"  and  the  blessing  of 
heaven,  and  the  breath  of  the  clover  was  in  it. 

The  long  procession  of  cows  filed  peacefully  down  the 
lane,  headed  by  "Speck,"  a  beautiful  Ayrshire,  with 
sharp  horns,  the  leader  and  dominant  power,  in  short,  the 
one  that  licked  all  the  others.  The  procession  ended 
with  Jerusha,  a  monster  cow,  the  largest  I  ever  saw, 
who  gave  a  tub  full  of  milk,  and  was  in  abject  fear  of  all 

24 


EOY  GOES  ON  A  FOOL'S  ERRAND.       25 

the  others,  but  on  the  most  confiding  terms  with  all  man- 
kind, and  with  no  more  fight  iu  her  than  there  is  in  the 
"  Sermon  on  the  Mount."  These  cows  are  portraits  in 
both  physique  and  character.  I  have  pictures  of  some  of 
them.  The  men  strained  the  milk  into  the  creamery,  and 
the  horn  tooted  for  breakfast. 

"  I  declare,"  said  Roy,  "  more  trout  and  larger  ones." 

Sam  grinned. 

"  Look  out,  Roy,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett,  "  Sam  is  getting 
ahead  of  you." 

"  Sam  is  a  daisy,"  said  Roy.  "  He  is  a  credit  to  the 
family." 

Sam  was  pleased,  and  what  would  he  not  have  done 
for  Roy,  or  Uncle  Bartlett,  or  Aunt  Bartlett?  Why! 
We  are  taught  even  God  himself  loves  the  praise  of  his 
saints,  and  why  should  not  Sam  go  toward  the  kindly 
light  that  was  home,  love,  and  blessing  to  him  ? 

As  the  meal  was  concluded,  Canis  Major  let  out  a 
single  bark,  not  as  one  who  gives  warning  of  danger,  but 
as  a  notice  that  some  one  is  coming.  And  so  it  was. 

Mr.  Aaron  Hoskins,  a  farmer,  well  to  do,  with  an  only 
child,  a  daughter  eighteen  years  old,  and  she  was  a 
schoolmate  of  Roy's.  It  was  Mr.  Hoskins.  He  had  a 
kind  neighborly  welcome. 

"  I  guess  I  came  in  a  good  time,"  said  he. 

"  Rather  late,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett,  "  but  there  are  a  few 
trout  left.  Now  set  up  and  have  some ! " 

"  That  is  the  blessing  of  having  some  boys,"  said 
farmer  Hoskins.  "  Now  my  boys  are  all  girls,  and  only- 
one  at  that,  so  I  get  no  trout." 

"  Mother  get  a  plate.  There's  a  good  lot  left,  and  I 
want  Mr.  Hoskins  to  taste  these." 


26  THE  WILD  ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

He  did  try  them,  and  to  his  satisfaction ;  talking  farm- 
talk  the  while. 

"  Now  a  taste  of  this  cider,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett.  "  You 
know  a  fish  swims  three  times.  Once  in  water,  once  in 
fat,  once  in  cider.  Then  they  won't  hurt  you." 

It  was  a  neighborly  call  and  a  picnic. 

"  I  must  go,"  said  Mr.  Hoskins.  "  I  thank  you  all  for 
your  kindness.  Now,  Roy,"  said  he,  "  do  you  want  to  go 
out  and  show  me  your  cows,  on  my  way  home  ?" 

"  I  shall  be  pleased  to,"  Roy  answered.  And  they 
went  out. 

Mr.  Bartlett  added,  "Much  obliged  for  this  call. 
Come  again,  neighbor,  and  come  oftener." 

No  one  said  it,  but  all  knew  well  enough  that  Neighbor 
Hoskins  wanted  to  talk  to  Roy  about  something  besides 
cows,  and  he  did.  They  walked  out  toward  the  cattle. 

"Oh,  Roy,  how  your  farm  does  improve.  Mow  it 
most  all  with  a  machine,  don't  you  ?" 

"  Yes  sir,  all  of  it.     We  made  it  possible  last  week." 

"  You  are  splendid  farmers,  you  make  the  farm  shine. 
But  it  takes  elbow  grease  to  do  it." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Roy.  "  But  it  is  better,  cheaper,  and 
easier  to  improve  a  field,  than  to  always  mow  it  by 
hand." 

"Yes,  Roy,  I  know  it.  But  I  have  not  the  heart  to  do 
anything.  Now  I  will  tell  you  my  trouble,  Roy.  You 
know  Mary,  and  are  always  good  and  kind  to  us  all :  — 
Will  Glance  is  always  coming  to  see  my  Mary  ;  and  she 
is  all  the  child  I  have.  Will  Glance  steals  and  lies,  he 
gets  drunk  and  chews  and  smokes  and  abuses  his  mother. 
He  denies  it  all  to  Mary,  and  she  believes  it  all,  like  a 
fool.  And  I  know  it  is  true,  for  good,  honest  people 


ROY  GOES  ON  A  FOOL'S  ERRAND.       27 

that  I  can  trust  have  seen  it,  and  seen  my  Mary  with 
him,  and  have  come  and  warned  me  of  it.  One  day  I 
went,  when  he  was  at  my  house,  and  saw  his  mother,  and 
she  denied  nothing,  but  wept  as  if  she  would  die.  Still 
Mary  will  not  give  him  up.  She  says  if  she  cannot  get 
what  she  wants,  she  must  take  what  she  can  get.  He  is 
rather  good-looking,  or  would  be  if  he  looked  good,  and 
he  is  rather  dressy.  Mary  says  he  will  be  steady  enough 
as  soon  as  he  is  married,  and  that  '  a  reformed  rake 
always  makes  the  best  husband.'  Oh,  what  a  mean 
proverb,  and  a  terrible  lie !  And  it  almost  kills  mother 
and  I.  Now,  Roy,  you  know  what  she  is.  You  have 
been  to  school  with  her,  and  are  older  than  she  is.  Can't 
you  go  and  see  her  to-night,  and  tell  her  what  you  know 
about  Glance  —  for  you  must  know  him  ?  " 

"  I  do  know  him,"  said  Roy,  "  and  no  good  of  him. 
He  is  a  boot-maker;  makes  good  pay  when  he  works, 
fools  away  his  money,  and,  as  he  is  related  to  his  em- 
ployer, he  does  not  get  discharged.  I  am  very  sorry,  Mr. 
Hoskins,  and  I  do  not  think  she  will  listen  to  me,  but  I 
will  warn  her  of  her  danger,  although  such  service  com- 
monly conies  to  no  good.  If  you  and  Mrs.  Hoskins  will 
be  over  here  at  eight  o'clock,  I  will  call  at  your  house  and 
say  a  word  to  Mary." 

Mr.  Hoskins  turned  to  his  home  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 
and  Roy  turned  to  the  house  with  a  job  on  hand  that  he 
did  not  relish.  But  he  was  determined  that  he  would  do 
it  to  help  his  friend  and  neighbor.  He  was  ill  at  ease  all 
day.  His  father  regarded  him  quietly,  but  said  nothing 
about  the  call,  while  Sam  Ellet  gave  him  a  few  hard  looks 
that  were  bristling  with  interrogation  points. 

About  eight  o'clock  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hoskins  came  over 


28  THE  WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

in  the  light  wagon.  Roy  had  seen  them  coming,  and 
had  gone  on  his  errand  by  a  short  cut  across  lots. 

Mary  Hoskins  was  at  home,  and  answered  his  knock. 

"  Come  in,  Mr.  Bartlett.     You  are  quite  a  stranger." 

"  Busy  times,"  said  Roy.  "  Hoeing  and  getting  ready 
for  haying." 

"  Oh,  you  have  not  been  here  since  the  snow  flew." 

"  I  acknowledge  that ;  I  have  not  visited  much  any- 
where, but  to-night  I  called  to  say  a  word  that  you  ought 
to  hear." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Will  Glance  is  not  good  enough  for  you,  Mary." 

"  Oh,  that  is  it,  is  it?  Now  it  is  all  out.  Now  I  am 
enlightened.  A  woman  has  to  do  as  she  can.  And  if 
Will  Glance  is  not  good  enough  for  me,  why  didn't  you 
come  yourself?  You  need  not  tell  me  you  did  not  want 
me.  That  is  implied.  Then  it  leaves  a  chance  for  Will 
Glance.  Do  you  know  any  hurt  of  him  ?  " 

"Yes,  Mary,  I  do.  I  have  seen  him  drunk,  yelling 
and  lashing  a  stable  horse,  which  he  drove  almost  to 
death.  And  I  know  he  has  struck  and  kicked  his  mother. 
Now,  Mary,  as  a  friend,  I  do  hope  you  will  not  grieve 
your  parents  and  reap  sorrow  for  yourself  —  lifelong 
sorrow  —  by  marrying  William  Glance." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Bartlett,  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  the  inter- 
est you  take  in  me  all  at  once.  Perhaps  it  will  not  be  as 
bad  as  you  think.  But  a  woman  has  to  do  as  she  can  in 
this  world,  and  so,  for  want  of  a  better  man,  I  am  en- 
gaged to  William  Glance.  Of  course,  it  will  make  no 
difference  to  you  personally,  Mr.  Bartlett." 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Roy.  "  But  I  did  want  to  help 
you  as  a  schoolmate  and  friend." 


ROY  GOES  ON  A  FOOL'S  ERRAND.       29 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  she.  "  I  have  no  favors  to  ask 
of  you.  And  as  you  have  not  been  in  this  house  for  six 
months  past,  I  shall  not  cry  if  you  do  not  come  into  it  for 
six  months  more." 

Roy  said  he  was  sorry  that  his  call  would  result  in  no 
good,  for  he  should  always  wish  her  well. 

Then  he  kindly  said,  "  Good  night,  Mary." 

She  gazed  upon  the  floor. 

Again,  "  Good-night,  Mary." 

No  movement  and  no  answer.  Then  Roy  slowly  and 
sadly  closed  the  door  after  him,  and  his  footfalls  faded 
out  in  the  silence  of  the  evening.  She  said  she  should 
not  cry,  but  she  did.  She  had  gone  to  her  room  when 
her  parents  returned,  and  in  her  own  bed  she  wept  until 
the  fountains  were  dry.  I  do  not  say  why  she  wept. 
You  can  think  what  you  please.  The  next  day  she  was 
very  pale  and  quiet,  and  a  little  later  in  the  afternoon  she 
said  to  her  mother,  "  I  think  I  will  walk  out,  and  see  if 
it  will  cure  my  headache.  I  will  try  to  be  back  to  get 
supper." 

She  did  not  get  back  so  soon,  and  she  saw  Will  Glance 
and  told  him  the  whole  story.  He  ground  his  teeth  with 
rage.  He  despised  meddlers.  He  would  get  even.  She 
forbade  it. 

Roy  had  talked  but  little  during  the  day,  nor  could  he 
see  how  he  could  be  of  any  service  to  the  Hoskins  fam- 
ily. His  mother  had  nearly  solved  the  problem.  So  at 
supper  she  said  to  Roy,  "  It  is  a  pity  that  Mary  Hoskins 
goes  with  that  Will  Glance." 

"  So  it  is,"  he  answered. 

"  What  does  Mr.  Hoskins  say  about  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he  regrets  it." 


30  THE  WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

"  What  does  her  mother  say  ?  " 

"  Of  course  she  does,  too." 

"  Well,  Roy,  what  can  you  do  about  it  ?  " 

Roy  looked  square  in  his  mother's  face. 

"  Oh,  you  need  not  look  strange.  You  have  been  stew- 
ing and  mulling  about  it  ever  since  yesterday  morning, 
when  you  and  Mr.  Hoskins  went  out  to  see  our  cows. 
Our  cows,  indeed.  A  two-legged  heifer,  I  guess,  was  the 
subject." 

Roy  laughed  heartily.  He  could  not  help  it.  And 
they  all  did.  Mr.  Bartlett  said  nothing.  Sam  ditto.  On 
the  principle  that  when  a  mother  takes  a  child  in  hand  it 
is  safest  and  best  for  the  father  to  sit  on  the  fence  and 
avoid  responsibility. 

"Mother,  I  think  we  all  have  the  right  idea  of  Will 
Glance,  and  that  we  are  not  likely  to  help  the  case  any." 

"  You  are  right,  Roy.  Then  will  you  please  to  let  it 
alone,  or  trouble  will  come  of  it." 

And  trouble  did  come  of  it. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

EOT    WALKS    OUT. 

ROY  dismissed  the  subject  from  his  mind,  and  after  the 
chores  were  done  went  out  back  of  the  house  to  look 
around.  He  was  in  his  slippers,  and  entertaining  a  quill 
toothpick,  both  for  use  and  to  assist  him  in  his  medita- 
tions. He  was  thinking  that,  whatever  troubles  others 
had,  he  had  none :  for  his  life  was  as  sweet  and  peaceful 
as  a  pan  of  milk,  when  a  tall,  dark-complexioned  man 
sprang  out  from  among  the  lilac  bushes  with  a  club,  and 
knocked  him  down.  Roy  was  stunned.  The  stranger 
jumped,  and  sat  upon  him,  and  with  a  curse  he  growled, 
"  There,  I'll  teach  you  to  meddle  with  me.  Now,  when 
you  come  to  I'll  pound  you  again." 

With  the  weight  upon  him,  Roy  did  not  revive.  Then 
there  came  a  queer,  rushing  sound,  like  the  flight  of  birds, 
but  growing  louder,  and  in  a  moment  more  a  crashing 
blow,  and  Will  Glance  went  down  under  the  fist  of  Sam 
Ellet.  Glance  was  confused,  but  soon  rallied.  Sam  laid 
him  out  again,  and,  catching  his  club,  hit  him  on  both 
hands  and  across  his  nose  with  that.  Then  Sam  straddled 
him,  and  yelled,  "Murder !  murder!  Help!  help!  Mur- 
der! murder!"  The  old  folks  were  in  the  garden  in 
front  of  the  house,  and  were  not  long  in  getting  there. 
They  were  just  in  season  to  see  Canis  Major  make  a  big 
grab  into  the  seat  of  the  villain's  trousers,  and  hang  to  him. 
It  must  have  hurt  his  feelings,  by  the  way  he  yelled. 

31 


32  THE  WILD   ARTIST  IN   BOSTON. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bartlett  choked  him  off,  and  tied  him 
up;  but  it  was  a  job.  His  eyes  were  like  balls  of  fire. 

The  parents  carried  Roy  into  the  house,  sponged  his 
head,  wiped  away  the  blood,  and  found,  to  their  joy,  that 
his  skull  was  not  broken.  But  it  was  a  cruel  wound  on 
his  forehead.  Their  help  revived  him.  Then  Mr.  Bart- 
lett brought  out  a  flat,  greenish-glass  bottle,  with  General 
Harrison  stamped  on  one  side,  poured  out  a  few  spoon- 
fuls of  nobody  knows  what,  and  made  Roy  drink  it. 
Then  he  said,  "Now,  mother,  he  will  not  faint;  and  you 
can  take  care  of  him."  Then  he  went  out.  Sam  stood 
a-straddle  of  the  scamp,  with  the  club,  ready  to  strike. 
Mr.  Bartlett  took  him  by  the  collar,  and  helped  him  up, 
although  he  still  held  him  fast.  Glance  cursed,  and 
swore  he  would  kill  Roy  Bartlett. 

"If  you  do,"  said  Sam  Ellett,  "  I  will  kill  you.  I  will, 
and  I  always  keep  my  promises." 

Glance  was  hurt  some  in  several  places,  and  his  head 
was  addled  and  bruised.  Roy  came  out  of  the  house, 
leaning  on  his  mother's  arm. 

"  Let  him  go,"  said  Roy ;  "  he  has  not  made  anything 
out  of  it,  and  I  am  alive." 

Mr.  Bartlett  spoke.  "William  Glance,  you  are  a 
wicked  man.  But  it  is  best  that  I  should  leave  your 
punishment  to  a  higher  power  than  I  am.  If  you  will 
promise  me  solemnly  that  you  will  never  molest  my  son, 
or  one  of  my  family,  or  my  property  again,  I  will  set  you 
free,  and  you  may  go.  Otherwise  I  will  unchain  the  dog, 
and,  when  I  can  get  him  off  of  you,  I  will  bind  you,  and 
deliver  you  to  the  sheriff,  at  Dover  jail."  _ 

Glance  thought  a  moment.  He  was  a  fool,  but  he  was 
not  an  idiot ;  so  he  gave  the  required  promise,  and  they 


ROY  WALKS   OUT.  33 

set  him  free.  Canis  Major  roared,  and  tugged  at  his 
chain,  but  did  not  get  loose.  If  he  had,  Will  Glance 
would  have  been  translated.  They  led  the  scamp  out  at 
the  front  gate,  and  he  limped  slowly  and  painfully  down 
the  road  towards  Dover,  with  his  hands  on  the  widest 
part  of  his  trousers.  He  had  evidently  been  drinking, 
and  whether  he  remembered  Lot's  wife  or  not,  he  remem- 
bered Sam  Ellet  and  Canis  Major.  He  did  not  look 
back,  and  they  all  watched  him  out  of  sight,  regardless 
of  consequences.  His  parents  supported  Roy  to  the  sit- 
ting-room. He  uttered  a  mild  protest,  and  soon  he  lay 
at  his  length  on  the  sofa. 

"  Now,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett,  "  tell  me  briefly  how  this 
came  to  pass.  Mr.  Hoskins  came  to  see  you?"  he 
began. 

"  Yes,  father,  and  he  wanted  me  to  speak  to  Mary 
about  Will  Glance.  I  did  not  wish  to,  and  I  told  him  I 
thought  it  would  do  no  good.  But  I  went.  The  visit 
failed.  She  must  have  told  Glance  all  about  it;  and  you 
know  what  he  is.  The  first  thing  I  knew  I  was  struck. 
Sam  knows  the  rest." 

"  Sam,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett,  "  tell  what  you  know." 

"And  tell  it  exactly  as  it  is,"  added  Mrs.  Bartlett, 
sternly. 

Sam  turned  and  looked  at  her. 

"  Aunt  Bartlett,"  said  he,  "  could  I,  or  would  I,  tell 
anything  else  ?  I  knocked  over  Will  Glance,  and  saved 
Roy,  and  I  would  give  my  life  for  him." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  son,"  said  she.  "  Sammy,  I 
was  only  too  earnest.  You  are  faithful  and  splendid." 

Sam  was  mollified.  "You  see  the  work  was  done,  and 
I  have  often,  when  it  was  pleasant  weather,  gone  up  into 


34  THE   WILD  ARTIST  IN   BOSTON. 

the  cupola  of  the  barn,  and  was  looking  at  everything  in 
sight,  —  for  you  can  see  a  long  way  from  the  cupola,  — 
when  I  saw  a  man  coming  across  the  pasture,  keeping 
close  to  the  wall,  and  under  the  trees,  and  looking  sus- 
piciously around.  Soon  I  knew  it  was  Will  Glance. 
Then  you- may  be  sure  I  kept  my  eye  on  him  ;  and  before 
I  knew  it,  he  had  a  club,  and,  after  watching  awhile,  he 
saw  Roy,  and  sprang  upon  him.  I  was  in  the  cupola,  and 
barefoot,  so  he  did  not  hear  me  coming.  I  made  awful 
flying  leaps  down,  and  I  came  upon  him  unawares  and 
gave  him  my  fist,  like  the  kick  of  a  mule." 

"  You  are  a  treasure,  Sammy,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett. 

"  True-hearted  and  faithful,"  said  Mrs.  Bartlett. 

"  You  are  as  good  as  a  brother,"  said  Roy. 

Sam  was  proud;  and  when,  a  little  later,  Mr.  Bartlett 
came  up  to  Sam  arid  gave  him  a  small  pasteboard  box,  he 
wondered.  Sam  opened  it,  and  saw,  lying  on  a  lock  of 
pink  cotton,  a  new,  bright,  gold  twenty-dollar  piece. 
Then  Sam's  heart  overflowed. 

Will  Glance  did  not  appear  in  public  for  a  week. 

On  the  third  day  of  July,  Farmer  Hoskins  rose  early 
in  the  morning,  and  as  he  was  going  to  the  barn  he  saw  a 
ladder  at  his  daughter's  window,  and  the  window  was 
open.  He  guessed  the  truth.  Mary  was  married  to 
Will  Glance.  A  brief  note  told  the  story.  The  old 
folks  bore  it  as  well  as  they  could.  On  the  afternoon  of 
the  Fourth  of  July  they  came  home.  Glance  said  he 
would  use  them  right ;  sorry  he  was  poor.  If  Mr.  Hos- 
kins was  willing,  he  would  work  for  him,  as  his  hired  man, 
for  twenty  dollars  a  mouth,  he  and  his  wife  to  board  with 
the  family. 

Mr.  Hoskins  could  pay  it  well  enough,  and,  rather  than 


BOY  WALKS   OUT.  35 

lose  sight  of  Mary,  the  bargain  was  made.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
"William  Glance  lived  at  the  Hoskins  farm.  All  the 
neighbors  were  sorry  for  it.  All  wished  them  well,  but 

O  v 

no  one  had  the  hardihood  to  offer  any  congratulations. 
New  Hampshire  farmers  are  plain  folks,  and  not  inclined 
to  be  hypocritical. 

Roy  Bartlett  lay  on  the  sofa,  and  his  mother  petted 
him  and  made  much  of  him,  and  his  father  and  Sam  were 
most  devoted.  But  Roy  was  nobody's  baby.  On  the 
morning  of  the  third  of  July  he  sat  on  the  mowing  ma- 
chine, and  mowed  the  dooi'yard  and  all  that  needed  an 
early  clip,  from  the  road  all  around  the  buildings.  And 
the  place  looked  as  smart  as  a  boy  that  had  had  his  hair 
cut.  Roy  rested  in  the  afternoon,  but,  on  the  morning 
of  the  fourth,  he  tuned  up  the  mowing  machine  for  active 
service  the  next  day. 

The  next  day  the  campaign  began  in  good  earnest. 
Roy  was  better,  and  spoiling  to  get  the  hay  when  it  was 
at  its  best.  Bright  and  early  the  rattle  song  of  the  mow- 
ing machine  was  heard,  and  it  sounded  long  and  well. 
Every  foot  of  land  had  been  examined  with  careful 
eyes;  the  hollows  had  been  raised,  the  knolls  graded, 
and  now  it  was  the  poetry  of  motion,  safe  and  efficient. 
Not  once  did  he  get  pitched  a  rod  away,  ahead  of  the 
cutter,  in  spread-eagle  style,  into  horrid  danger.  No. 
But  he  rode  a  conqueror,  through  the  vast  army 
of  spears,  until  acres  of  grass  lay  around  him,  dry- 
ing into  tons  of  sweet  hay.  And  never  in  his  life  will 
he  look  nobler  or  handsomer,  than  he  did  that  day. 
His  father  and  Sam  cut  the  corners  of  the  field,  and, 
great  as  was  the  work  accomplished,  it  was  easily  done. 
The  day  was  hot,  and  the  hay  made  well.  After  dinner, 


36  THE   WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

the  horse-rake  appeared,  with  old  Tom,  a  horse  who  was 
the  perfection  of  all  honest  equines,  and  the  hay  was 
raked.  What  a  transformation  !  At  six  o'clock  the  field 
was  covered  with  the  tumbles  of  hay,  all  in  order  for  the 
night.  Beautiful  landscape !  How  different  from  the 
morning.  Then,  beautiful  nature,  and  now  still  glori- 
ously beautiful,  but  almost  the  despair  of  art  is  a  haying 
scene.  As  Emerson  says :  "  Nature  is  various ;  Nature  is 
intricate." 


CHAPTER  V. 

ROY  PROVES  HIMSELF  A  HERO. 

DAY  after  day  the  fragrant  hay  came  gayly  to  the 
barn,  —  excuse  me,  I  did  not  intend  to  write  poetry,  but 
the  subject  is  so  full  of  it  that  it  came  involuntarily.  At 
any  rate,  poetry  or  not,  it  is  a  fact.  With  ten  days  per- 
fect hay  weather,  the  best  hay  was  nearly  all  in.  It  was 
Friday  evening,  and  the  morrow  promised  to  be  not  much 
of  a  hay  day,  for  clouds  were  rolling  in,  as  if  a  break  in 
the  hay  weather  might  come  soon. 

"  Roy,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett,  "  our  English  hay  is  almost 
all  in.  I  think  we  may  take  it  a  little  easier,  and  not 
mow  to-morrow.  That  case  that  was  left  out  to  me  as 
referee,  had  better  be  attended  to.  I  want  you  to  take 
the  light  wagon  and  go  to  Dover  in  the  morning.  Sam 
may  go  with  you.  Go  to  the  lawyer's  office  and  get  the 
papers,  with  all  the  case  and  the  evidence  done  up  in  one 
snug  bundle,  and  sealed.  You  sign  it  with  date,  day,  and 
hour,  and  let  Sam  sign  it  as  a  witness.  Then  go  up  the 
Tollend  road  by  the  heath  house,  past  Ezra  Hayes's  and  to 
Elisha  Locke's,  turn  there,  cross  the  bridge,  go  to  the 
Gonic,  and  from  there  to  Rochester.  Call  on  the  lawyer 
for  the  other  side,  get  his  case,  evidence,  and  all  his  state- 
ments, have  it  sealed,  sign  it  the  same  as  the  other,  and 
let  Sam  witness  that,  too.  Then  bring  the  papers  safely 
to  me.  Perhaps  a  long,  hateful,  and  expensive  lawsuit 
can  be  avoided ;  and,  although  I  have  no  personal  inter- 

37 


38  THE   WILD   AKTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

est  in  it,  yet  as  it  has  been  referred  to  me  as  an  honest 
man,  I  must  do  them  all  the  good  I  can." 

The  next  morning,  Roy  and  Sam  went  on  their  errand. 
It  was  cloudy  in  the  morning,  but  soon  "  burnt  off,"  and 
was  a  fair,  hot  day.  The  boys  knew  nearly  every  farmer, 
by  name,  at  least,  from  Dover  to  Strafford  Ridge.  Roy 
took  his  sketchbook  with  him,  so  that  he  might  take  an 
outline  of  rock  or  tree,  house  or  hill,  if  he  chose  to.  It 
was  a  pleasant  summer  ride.  Past  the  old  Betsey  Coffin 
place,  Peter  Cushing's,  Nat  Eaton's,  Joseph  Winkley's, 
Ham,  Hodgdon,  Home,  Fernald,  Watson,  the  old  Heath 
House,  with  a  convivial  reputation,  Ezra  Hayes's,  Cater, 
Elisha  Locke's,  and  so  on  to  the  Gonic.  This  is  the  short 
for  Squanamagonic,  the  barbarous  old  Indian  name. 
They  accomplished  their  errand  at  Rochester,  and  started 
on  their  return.  When  they  got  back  to  Locke's  Mills, 
Roy  said,  "Now,  Sam,  let  us  hitch  the  hoi-se  here,  for  I 
want  to  sketch  the  falls,  the  old  saw-mill,  and  the  pout- 
hole." 

"It  is  a  beauty  subject  for  a  picture,"  said  Sam.  "I 
hope  you  will  get  it." 

The  young  men  went  a  few  rods  down  on  the  east  side 
of  the  river,  then  down  the  steep  bank  among  the  rocks 
and  trees,  holding  on  carefully,  for  a  slip  might  be  dan- 
gerous. So  they  climbed  down  to  the  water,  then  by 
jumping  from  one  rock  to  another,  they  at  last  stood  on 
the  large  flat  rock  about  ten  feet  long  and  four  feet  wide, 
which  was  a  little  above  the  water.  Then  they  stood  at 
the  deep  foaming  water  of  the  pout-hole.  There  were 
two  young  men  already  on  the  rock,  both  younger  than 
Roy,  and  one  younger  than  Sam.  The  mist  of  the  falls 
fell  in  coolness  around  them,  and,  although  the  boiling 


ROY  PROVES   HIMSELF  A   HERO.  39 

current  looked  dangerous,  yet  the  older  one  was  un- 
dressed for  a  dive  into  the  dark  water. 

"  Not  going  into  the  pout-hole,  McDuffie,  are  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am.  I  can  swim  like  a  duck,  and  you  can't 
drown  me." 

"  Don't  do  it.     I  wouldn't  risk  it."  said  Roy. 

"  Oh,  it  is  safe  enough,  I  guess.  I  want  a  rock  from 
the  bottom.  About  ten  feet  down,  ain't  it  ?  " 

"Near  that,"  said  Roy.  "But  it  is  not  safe.  More 
than  one  have  been  drowned  in  this  rough  water."  Roy 
took  off  his  coat  with  the  papers  in  it,  and  laid  it  on  a 
rock,  safe  and  dry.  Then  he  glanced  at  Sam.  Sam  was 
wide  awake,  and  appeared  to  understand. 

"  Sam,"  said  Roy,  "  grab  that  fishing-pole." 

He  did. 

"  Good-by,"  said  McDuffie.  And  he  dove,  head  first, 
into  the  dark  water.  They  watched  anxiously,  but  he 
did  not  appear. 

"  Sam,"  said  Roy,  "  go  down  on  that  rock  and  help  me 
out.  Quick,  or  he  is  lost." 

McDuffie  had  struck  a  sharp  rock  in  the  bottom,  and 
was  stunned.  He  was  drowning.  An  instant  later,  the 
white  of  his  body  shone  for  a  moment  in  a  place  where 
the  sun  shone,  and  that  instant  Roy  plunged  into  the 
water  after  him.  Roy  caught  him  by  his  head,  and  struck 
as  strongly  as  he  could,  with  the  heavy  body,  and  was 
being  rapidly  drawn  down  the  river  when  Sam's  fishing- 
pole  reached  him.  A  strong  grasp  with  one  hand,  while 
he  had  McDuffie's  head  under  his  arm,  holding  on  with  the 
other  a  moment,  while  two  lives  were  almost  lost,  and 
then  Sam  grasped  Roy's  hand,  and  the  other  young  man 
had  McDuffie,  first  by  the  hair,  then  by  the  arm ;  then 


40  THE  WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

all  three  lifted  him,  scratched  and  bleeding,  upon  the  hot 
rock,  and  Roy  climbed  and  was  helped,  painfully,  after 
him. 

"  Thank  God,"  said  Roy. 

"  Amen,"  said  Sam. 

They  worked  quickly,  found  a  plank  and  laid  it  from 
rock  to  rock,  and  got  the  senseless  body  quickly  on  a 
piece  of  soft  grass,  which,  of  course  was  hot  on  such  a 
day.  They  held  him  head  downward  for  an  instant,  and 
they  rolled  him.  They  slapped  his  feet  and  hands,  and 
his  back.  They  pressed  his  breast  and  made  respiratory 
movements,  and  soon  were  rewarded  with  a  groan. 
Then,  after  the  best  treatment  that  the  boys  could  give, 
they  wiped  him  dry  with  their  handkerchiefs  and  dressed 
him.  He  was  conscious,  although  bleeding  from  bruises 
and  scratches  from  the  rocks.  Then  they  supported  him 
to  Roy' s  wagon,  and  with  one  on  each  side  of  him,  to 
hold  him.  up,  and  Roy  to  drive,  they  got  him  home  to  his 
father's  house,  sensible,  but  suffering.  Sam  told  them 
what  Roy  had  done,  and  young  McDuffie  heard  it  and 
beckoned  to  Roy.  He  came  and  put  his  hand  upon  the 
sufferer's  cheek ;  then  McDuffie  took  the  hand  and 
kissed  it.  It  was  a  full  acknowledgment  of  everything.  - 

"  But,  Mr.  Bartlett,"  said  Mr.  McDuffie,  "  you  are  all 
wet  through.  Come  in  and  get  a  dry  suit,  and  stay  with 
us." 

"  No,  I  thank  you,"  said  Roy.  "  Sam  and  I  will  go 
home.  And  the  horse  will  do  it  in  double-quick  time." 

"You  have  saved  my  son,"  said  Mr.  McDuffie.  "We 
can  never  repay  you.  I  will  see  you  soon." 

"  You  are  all  welcome,"  said  Roy.  "  Good-by,  I 
am  glad  to  be  of  some  service  to  you.  I  guess  he 


KOY   PROVES   HIMSELF   A  HEKO.  41 

won't  dive  into  the  old  pout-hole  again,  when  the  water 
is  pouring  over  the  dam." 

Mr.  McDuffie  sent  to  the  Gonic  for  a  doctor  who 
patched  the  outside,  and  dosed  the  inside  of  young  Mc- 
Duffie, and  prophesied  that  he  would  do  well  if  he  kept 
away  from  the  pout-hole. 

"  Do  you  think  you  will  know  enough  to  ?  "  asked  his 
mother.  A  decided  nod  was  the  answer. 

Then  Roy  and  Sam  took  a  fast  drive  home.  He  was 
wet  and  sodden,  and  the  water  quashed  in  his  boots.  It 
was  a  wonder  and  astonishment  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bartlett, 
but' it  did  not  stop  them  until  dry  towels,  dry  clothing, 
and  warm  drinks  had  been  administered,  until  Roy  was 
as  hot  as  a  baked  apple,  and  as  red  as  a  rooster.  He 
laughed  heartily  at  the  way  his  mother  coddled  him,  and 
his  father  looked  at  him  as  if  he  thought  unutter- 
able things.  That  night,  when  Mr.  Bartlett  gave  thanks 
to  God  for  being  delivered  from  dangers,  seen  and  un- 
seen, he  did  it  with  an  unction.  And  the  young  hero 
slept  the  sleep  of  the  true-hearted,  and  came  out  as 
bright  as  a  button  in  the  morning. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE    CHURCH    WITH    THE    GOLDEN   BOOSTER. 

THE  next  day  was  Sunday.  The  Bartletts  had  no  hay 
out,  and  nothing  to  worry  about.  There  was  a  quiet 
hush  about  the  day.  Everything  seemed  to  be  different 
from  the  other  six  days.  It  was  quieter.  Grimalkin 
walked  around  as  if  she  knew  what  day  it  was,  and  the 
pelican  sang  with  a  Sunday  kind  of  mildness.  Even  the 
flies  buzzed  differently.  I  an  not  writing  fiction.  I 
know  that  in  such  households  there  is  a  Sunday  restraint 
and  rest  upon  everything.  I  have  often  felt  it,  and  won- 
dered if  the  day  was  not  made  of  sacred  material.  The 
house  was  locked  up.  Four  people  rode  to  Dover  in  the 
family  carryall,  to  the  brick  Orthodox  church  with  the 
large  golden  rooster  'on  it.  They  sat  in  the  Bartlett 
pew.  They  came  to  worship.  When  the  parson  gave 
out  the  morning  hyrnn,  —  • 

"  Safely  through  another  week 

God  has  brought  us  on  our  way, 

Let  us  now  a  blessing  seek, 
Waiting  in  his  courts  to-day. 

Day  of  all  the  week  the  best, 

Emblem  of  eternal  rest,"  — 

then    the  Bartlett   family  seemed  to  find   the   voice    of 
thanksgiving  and   praise.     Mr.  Bartlett   sung   a  strong 

42 


THE   CHURCH   WITH  THE  GOLDEN  ROOSTER.     43 

bass,  Roy  was  a  good  tenor,  and  Sam  was  learning  well 
on  the  bass  also.  Mrs.  Bartlett  was  a  good  soprano  and 
an  inspiration  in  church  music.  To-day  there  seemed 
especial  cause  for  thankful  songs.  All  the  large  congre- 
gation felt  it  too,  and  joined  with  the  choir  in  the  well- 
known  hymn.  But,  after  the  loyal  prayer  and  giving  of 
thanks  for  all  the  mercies  of  life,  the  parson  gave  the 
subject  of  his  sermon.  "  By  this  we  know  what  love  is, 
He  gave  Himself  for  us."  Then  it  did  seem  as  if  the 
parson  knew  all  about  it,  and  was  bound  to  make  this 
service  the  perfection  of  all  Sabbath  completeness.  And 
the  day  was  a  rich  one. 

On  the  way  home  Sam  remarked  :  "  There  is  some 
stability  in  a  good  evangelical  church." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett,  "  I  knew  a  man,  Mr. 
James  Davis,  who  attended  that  church  for  twenty-four 
years,  and  during  that  time  he  missed  but  one  half  day 
from  its  Sunday  service.  After  that  his  health  failed, 
and  he  was  not  able  to  attend  so  constantly.  That  is  a 
record  for  constancy.  I  have  an  old  account-book  con- 
taining Mr.  Davis's  agreements  with  his  men  whom  he 
employed  for  the  Dover  Factory  Company,  dated  1825, 
in  which  they  agree  to  work  for  the  D.  M.  Co.,  and  find 
the  necessary  carpenter's  tools  for  so  much  a  month,  free 
from  expense  of  board  or  spirit  to  the  company.  Other 
employers  furnished  liquor  ;  he  would  not.  Good  men 
and  good  churches  are  never  far  apart.  Thus  Sam  was 
shown  the  right,  and  was  made  and  treated  as  their 
equal.  Monday  morning  came  fair  and  bright.  The 
grass  was  wet  for  it  had  rained  during  the  night.  Bright 
and  early,  Canis  Major  came  tumbling  upstairs  to  call 
the  boys.  They  had  the  start  of  him,  and  the  three 


44  THE   WILD   ARTIST  IN   BOSTON. 

.friends  came  down  together.  The  chores  on  a  large 
farm  are  no  small  job  to  do,  but  with  four  strong  people, 
and  extra  help  when  they  wanted  it,  they  got  along 
nicely.  And  breakfast  is  always  welcome.  When  the 
morning  meal  was  finished,  Mrs.  Bartlett  said  earnestly, 
"  Roy,  I  have  two  requests  to  make  of  you." 

"  Say  on,  mother." 

"  One  is,  keep  out  of  other  folk's  love  affairs,  and  the 
other  is,  keep  out  of  the  Isinglass  river  or  somebody  will 
lose  a  good  man." 

Roy  laughed  and  said  he  would  remember  it,  but  would 
try  to  do  his  duty.  After  breakfast  the  rattle  of  the 
mowing  machine  began  again.  Once  it  sounded  new 
and  incongruous,  but  now  it  is  the  most  agricultural  and 
bucolic  of  sounds ;  now  it  is  quite  as  much  an  addition 
to  the  music  of  nature  as  the  staccato  song  of  the  yellow- 
hammer.  This  time  the  great  clover  field  yielded  up  its 
sweetness.  Not  the  oleanders  of  Palestine,  not  the 
oranges  of  Florida,  not  the  escholtzias  of  California,  not 
the  rhododendrons  of  Pennsylvania,  or  the  roses  of  Old 
or  New  England,  are  any  handsomer  to  me  than  a  splen- 
did field  of  red  clover  in  the  beauty  of  its  bloom.  And 
the  prince  of  the  house  of  Bartlett  rode  a  conqueror  over 
it  all.  It  was  eleven  o'clock  when  the  horn  sounded  ; 
too  early  for  dinner.  First  a  single  long  wind  of  the 
horn,  then  three  short  staccato  toots.  It  was  company 
come.  More  short  toots  would  have  meant  danger,  and 
would  have  brought  them  all  in  on  the  run.  Roy  came 
first,  and  soon  his  father  and  Sam.  It  was  Mr.  McDufiie. 
He  greeted  them  very  heartily,  and  said  that  Jean  was 
better.  "Guess  he  has  learned  a  lesson.  But  he  will  lie 
on  the  sofa  for  a  week  and  get  some  of  the  scratches  and 


THE   CHUECH  WITH  THE  GOLDEN  BOOSTER.     45 

bruises  off  him.  And  my  boy  knows  that  Roy  almost 
lost  his  life  in  saving  him,  and  he  wants  to  do  something 
for  Roy.  Jean  said  that  his  funeral  would  have  been 
to-day  if  it  had  not  been  for  Roy,  and  he  did  not  want 
to  die  yet.  Now  he  is  going  to  do  this.  About  two 
years  ago  his  uncle  gave  him  a  hundred  dollars  for  his 
i  name,  and  it  has  been  in  the  Dover  Savings  Bank  and 
i  gained  something  since.  Jean  says  Roy  must  take  it, 
every  cent.  Give  the  interest  over  the  hundred  to  Sam." 
Mr.  McDuffie  laid  the  roll  of  bills  and  odd  change  in  Roy's 
lap. 

Roy's  color  came  in  a  moment.  "  No  sir,"  said  he 
vehemently.  "  Not  one  cent  will  I  take  now  or  ever, 
and  no  present  of  any  kind.  Do  you  want  any,  Sam  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  Sam,  "  it  would  spoil  all  the  good 
of  it." 

"  Now,  Mr.  McDuffie,"  continued  Roy,  "  I  only  did  my 
duty.  I  am  grateful  to  Jean  and  his  father  and  mother 
for  their  appreciation.  And  I  know  Sam  is  too.  You 
do  this.  Stay  here  to  dinner ;  then  go  to  Dover  before 
the  bank  closes,  return  this  money  to  the  savings  bank 
again,  every  cent,  and  perhaps  the  interest  will  not  be 
broken.  Then  tell  Jean  if  he  wants  to  love  me  I  shall 
be  glad  to  have  him.  Then  he  and  all  of  you  come  and 
visit  us  and  we  will  visit  you  and  be  friends  with  you 
all.  Tell  Jean  when  he  does  a  kind,  generous  act  to 
some  one  else,  to  let  me  know  it.  When  he  adds  to  his 
bank  account,  to  let  me  know  it.  Tell  him  when  any 
great  good  comes  to  him,  to  let  me  know  it ;  and  I  hope 
often  to  hear  some  good  of  him." 

Mr.  McDuffie  mopped  up  his  face,  and  some  others 
did.  The  dinner  was  eaten  with  thanksgiving  and  thank- 


46         ,  THE  WILD   ARTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

fulness,  and  the  money  went  back  to  Jean  McDuffie's 
account  in  the  Dover  Savings  Bank.  Jean  soon  recov- 
ered. He  was  less  headstrong  and  more  faithful.  The 
boy  that  was  with  him  said,  that  Jean  got  a  pile  of  good 
out  of  the  Isinglass  river.  But  he  had  a  close  shave  for 
his  life.  And  that  night  the  fragrant  clover  lay  in 
several  hundred  tumbles  on  its  way,  with  extra  help,  to 
its  winter  quarters  in  the  barn. 

Two  days  afterward  the  Bartlett  family  smiled  when 
they  heard  that  Jean  McDuffie's  parents  "had  up  a 
note."  That  is  to  say,  at  the  next  Sunday  morning  ser- 
vice, the  Orthodox  minister  read  a  notice,  saying, 
"  Brother  Elisha  McDuffie  and  his  wife  desire  the  church 
to  join  them  in  returning  thanks  to  Almighty  God  for 
delivering  their  son  and  only  child  from  a  sudden  and 
dreadful  death."  And  the  parson  did  give  thanks,  and 
the  church  did  join,  and  meant  it,  too.  It  was  a  common 
practise  for  thrifty  families  to  ask  the  church  to  pray  that 
they  might  have  special  favors  granted  them  at  special 
times.  Whereat  a  quiet  and  suppressed  smile  would  steal 
over  the  faces  of  the  world's  people  as  some  graceless  one 
would  whisper  "  that  makes  the  tenth."  And  often,  very 
often,  from  sadness  and  sorrow,  I  have  heard  their 
requests  come,  "  that  the  death  of  their  beloved  one 
might  be  sanctified  to  their  spiritual  and  everlasting 
good."  They  learned  and  loved  to  bear  each  other's 
burdens,  coming  and  going,  and,  although  the  devil's  chil- 
dren think  they  have  all  the  fun,  there  are  many,  many, 
both  earthly  and  heavenly  blessings  that  they  never 
know.  Indeed,  I  think  they  work  the  hardest,  fare  the 
hardest,  suffer  most,  and  take  the  poorest  pay  all  the 
time. 


THE  CHURCH  WITH  THE   GOLDEN  BOOSTER.     47 

The  haying  went  on.  Every  day  the  big  loads  went 
tumbling  into  the  deep  bays  or  on  the  high  scaffolds. 
All  the  upland  was  in,  and  now  they  were  cutting  the 
runs  and  meadows.  But  a  little  of  it  got  wet.  At  noon 
the  clouds  were  rising,  and  the  thunder  growled  in  the 
distance.  Big  thunder-heads  piled  up  in  the  west,  and 
with  almost  human  expression,  seemed  to  war  and  battle 
with  each  other.  They  got  the  hay  up  as  fast  as  they 
could,  and  some  of  it  was  housed.  They  put  it  in  larger 
bunches,  and  made  it  to  shed  water  as  much  as  possible. 
Sam  opened  the  gate  that  led  from  the  pasture  into  the 
lane,  and  the  cows  hurried  up  to  the  barn.  Then,  with 
claps  of  thunder  and  blazes  of  lightning,  they  ran  to  the 
house,  not  quite  soon  enough  to  escape  all  the  shower. 
An  hour  later  the  milking  was  done  and  the  supper  out 
of  the  way.  It  seemed  as  if  all  the  water  in  Bow  pond, 
three  miles  long,  had  got  loose,  and  was  pelting  Strafford 
County,  and  the  crashing  of  the  thunder  and  the  blaze  of 
the  lightning  increased. 

Mr.  Bartlett  spoke.  "  Now,  mother,  you  sit  on  the 
sofa.  It  is  stuffed  with  feathers.  Sam,  you  move  your 
chair  out  of  the  corner,  but  not  in  the  centre.  Roy,  move 
farther  from  Sam,  so  we  may  be  scattered  more  if  the 
house  gets  struck." 

Mr.  Bartlett  pumped  two  pails  of  water,  and  sat  down 
apart  from  the  others. 

"Are  you  well  insured,  father?"  asked  Roy. 

"  Yes,  very  well.  Then  what  more  can  we  do  ?  Noth- 
ing. We  have  cared  for  all  the  stock,  scattered  apart,  so 
as  not  to  be  all  killed  at  once  if  the  lightning  should 
strike  us.  Now  we  may  look  on  and  enjoy  what  we  can 
of  the  fearful  power  of  the  storm." 


48  THE  WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

It  was  hours  before  there  was  any  abatement,  and 
then  one  part  seemed  to  follow  the  Cocheco  River, 
and  the  other  the  Bellamy,  off  toward  the  ocean. 
And  whoever  had  it  was  welcome  to  it.  They  had 
had  enough  of  it. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

DULL    WEATHER    IN    HAT  TIME. 

THE  next  day  was  no  hay  day.  It  was  cloudy.  Mr. 
Bartlett  did  not  feel  like  doing  anything  but  haying,  and 
that  could  not  be  done.  So  they  sat  in  the  big  kitchen 
talking. 

"  Father,"  said  Roy,  "  have  you  made  your  decision  on 
that  referee  case  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have." 

"  What  do  you  get  out  of  it?" 

"I  suppose  I  could  charge  a  reasonable  fee,  but  I  shall 
ask  nothing.  I  have  put  my  answer  on  the  basis  of  truth 
and  justice,  and  they  will  value  my  decision  more  if  I  do 
it  for  peace  and  right  than  if  I  do  it  for  money.  Here 
comes  Captain  John  Q.  Hayes  now  after  the  papers." 

He  rode  into  the  yard,  and  was  soon  in  the  sitting- 
room.  The  papers  were  delivered,  and  the  compensation 
declined.  Then  Captain  Hayes  sat  down,  saying  he 
•would  sit  and  chat  awhile.  He  had  not  made  a  call  in  a 
long  time,  and  he  was  welcomed.  Roy  went  down  and 
drew  a  pitcher  of  rare  old  cider,  which  seemed,  like  Dim- 
mesdale's  love,  to  have  a  consecration  of  its  own.  It 
was  not  neglected. 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  a  rain  ?" 

"Not  often,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett. 

"  Why,"  said  Captain  Hayes,  "  I  should  think  the  old 
49 


50  THE   WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

Orthodox  parson  that  lived  near  the  Sudbury  River,  had 
prayed  for  it.  Did  you  ever  hear  the  story  ?  " 

"  Please  tell  it,"  said  Roy. 

"  You  see,  the  old  parson  was  a  matter-of-fact  man,  and 
believed  in  prayer.  So  when  he  prayed  for  a  thing  he 
just  meant  it  literally.  One  time  there  was  an  awful 
drouth.  Oh,  ever  so  dry,  and  the  country  all  drying  up. 
One  Sunday  morning  he  could  stand  it  no  longer.  So  lie 
prayed,  '  Oh,  Lord,  thou  hast  taught  us  to  bring  all  our 
wants  to  thee.  We  need  rain.  The  crops  are  all  drying 
up,  and  everything  is  afire.  Oh,  send  us  rain,  now.  Not 
a  big  thunder  shower  that  will  rip  things  and  wash  all  the 
taters  out  of  the  hills,  but  a  regular  drizzle-drozzle, 
drizzle-drozzle,  that  will  soak  in  and  do  us  some  good.' 
Of  course  it  rained.  And  it  kept  it  up  all  the  week.  It 
was  enough  ;  but  the  parson  did  not  feel  at  liberty  to 
interfere  with  the  weather  unless  he  had  a  grievance. 
And  the  grievance  came.  Ha!  ha!  ha!"  laughed  the 
old  captain.  "  It  rained  all  the  next  week,  and  the  old 
parson  got  enough  of  it.  So  he  prayed  again, '  Oh,  Lord, 
stop  this  rain.  We  have  got  enough  of  it,  without  you 
intend  to  drown  us.  Some  of  the  country  is  under 
water,  half  our  hay  has  gone  down  into  the  Concord 
River,  and  the  rest  of  it  is  as  black  as  your  hat.'  Then, 
they  said,  the  rain  stopped." 

They  were  all  amused  at  the  captain's  story,  for  he  was 
good  at  stories.  Of  course,  nobody  could  vouch  for  the 
truth  of  such  good  stories. 

"  Now  I  will  tell  you  a  true  story,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett. 
"Some  years  ago  I  happened  to  be  in  Cambridgeport, 
Massachusetts.  At  that  time,  Rev.  Joseph  W.  Parker 
was  pastor  there,  a  man  of  dignity  and  scholarship,  I 


DULL   WEATHER   IN  HAY  TIME.  51 

think  as  near  my  ideal  of  perfection  as  a  minister,  as  I 
ever  saw.  One  Wednesday  evening  when  the  bell 
sounded,  I  went  into  the  weekly  prayer-meeting;  It 
had  been  terribly  dry  for  a  long  time,  and  the  air  was 
heavy  with  the  smoke  of  forest  fires.  The  pastor  read 
a  short  lesson,  and,  after  a  hymn  he  prayed,  and  this  is 
his  prayer,  nearly  word  for  word  ;  I  remember  it  distinctly. 
O  Lord  !  Thou  hast  taught  us  to  bring  all  our  wants 

o  o 

to  thee.  O  Lord !  send  the  rain,  the  needed,  welcome 
rain.  For  the  heavens  are  as  brass,  and  the  earth  is 
parched  with  fervent  heat,  and  men  and  beasts  are  suffer- 
ing. O  Lord,  send  the  rain  !  O  Lord,  send  the  rain. 
Then  the  breeze  blew  fresher  into  the  windows,  the  thun- 
der was  heard,  and  in  the  last  half  of  the  one  hour  long 
meeting,  it  rained  splendidly,  gloriously.  Then  Mr. 
Parker,  since  Dr.  Parker,  in  the  fulness  of  his  heart, 
gave  thanks.  0  Lord,  we  thank  thee  for  the  rain.  Thou 
hast  heard  our  prayer.  We  thank  thee  for  the  glorious, 
welcome  rain.  When  the  meeting  was  over  I  stayed  and 
shook  hands  with  him,  and  thanked  him  for  praying  for 
rain.  And  I  got  my  jacket  wet  going  home.  This  is 
exactly  as  it  occurred." 

Said  Roy,  "  Captain,  must  we  consider  these  things 
sent  in  answer  to  our  asking?" 

"What  does  the  book  say?"  he  answered.  "  'All  good 
and  perfect  gifts  come  down  from  the  Father  of  lights,' 
and  it  also  says,  '  In  everything  give  thanks.'  Now 
whenever  we  get  a  good  thing  we  know  who  to  thank  for 
it,  don't  we  ?  It  seems  Elisha  McDuffie  did." 

Roy  was  answered.  Sam  showed  his  ivories.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Bartlett  enjoyed  it.  They  always  relished  a  good 
truth,  well  put. 


52  THE   WILD  ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

"  I  heard  a  good  story,"  said  Sara,  "  a  little  while  ago, 
and  it  is  strictly  true.  There  was  a  farmer  named  Sher- 
man who  lived  in  Wayland,  Mass.  He  had  a  piece  of 
corn  near  a  piece  of  woods  and  the  squirrels  dug  it  up  to 
eat,  so  he  carried  out  a  large  box  trap,  baited  with  corn. 
He  set  it  on  the  fence  and  fastened  it,  so  it  could  not  get 
away.  It  remained  a  long  time  but  caught  no  game. 
One  day  he  saw  it  sprung,  but  there  was  nothing  in  it,  so 
he  left  it.  He  saw  it  once  in  a  While,  but  it  was  an  old 
trap  and  he  let  it  stay  out  all  summer,  until  the  corn  was 
gathered.  One  day  in  the  fall  he  thought  he  would  carry 
it  home,  and  lo!  it  was  too  heavy.  Soon  bees  came  buz- 
zing around  his  head,  and  he  found  his  trap  had  a  swarm 
of  bees  in  it  and  was  full  of  honey.  The  bees  went  in 
at  the  spindle-hole  and  filled  the  trap." 

"  A  good  story,"  said  the  old  captain.  "  I  have  two 
swarms  at  home  now,  that  I  found  in  the  woods.  I  located 
them  in  warm  weather  and  felled  the  tree  and  sawed 
them  off  in  snapping  cold  weather,  and  set  them  upon  my 
bee  stand.  I  know  where  there  are  two  swarms  now  in 
Greenhill  woods,  and  I  mean  to  get  them  as  soon  as  the 
weather  is  cold  enough.  I  get  a  swarm  or  two,  almost 
every  year.  The  fact  is,  that  the  man  who  lives  in  the 
country  can  be  a  very  sharp,  wise  man  and  get  a  great 
deal  out  of  his  wisdom  if  he  will,  as  there  is  always  some- 
thing new  in  the  country." 

The  boys  always  enjoyed  a  call  from  Captain  Hayes. 
He  was  always  entertaining. 

Roy  tried  again  for  another  story.  "Captain,  did  you 
ever  know  a  witch  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  and  been  bewitched  by  them,  time  and 
again,  when  I  was  of  your  age." 


DULL  WEATHER  IN  HAY  TIME.  53 

Sara  shouted. 

"  And  I  have  not  got  beyond  their  influence  yet,"  he 
added,  laughing. 

"  Tell  us  a  witch  story,  captain." 

"  Do  you  want  it,  Sam  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  please  tell  one." 

Well,  then  ;  up  in  Barrington,  take  the  road  that  leads 
through  Fly  Market,  then  up  around  by  Jerry  Kingman's 
and  Eliphalet  Foss,  over  Muchdo  hill,  past  Robert  Stacy's 
to  Hardscrabble,  and  there  on  till  you  take  the  road  that 
leads  over  to  the  Leatherses,  and  when  you  are  pretty 
well  on  your  way,  you  will  pass  an  old  cellar-hole.  There 
was  where  the  old  witch  lived,  and  her  name  was  Moll 
Ellsworth.  She  lived  alone,  except  a  black  cat  without 
a  white  hair  on  it.  She  planted  her  own  garden,  and 
raised  enough  for  her.  She  went  out  carding  and  weav- 
ing. Sometimes  she  laid  out  the  dead  and  watched  all 
night  with  them  alone.  She  would  take  no  money  but 
silver,  and  she  always  bit  it  when  she  took  it,  else  it 
would  have  worked  harm  to  her,  as  a  witch.  Even 
witches  have  their  limits  like  other  people,  Everybody 
was  afraid  of  her,  and  so  but  few  ever  went  into  her 
house.  There  used  to  be  lights  in  her  house  at  all  times 
of  night,  and  some  people  said  that  Henry  Tufts  (see 
Harper's  Magazine,  March,  1888,  Vol.  76,  page  605), 
used  to  make  it  one  of  his  hiding-places,  and  pay  her  well 
for  it,  for  no  one  would  dare  to  look  there  for  him,  and 
the  sheriffs  and  constables  always  wanted  him.  Now  Nick 
Scruton  used  to  live  a  little  ways  beyond  her,  and  he 
used  to  sauce  her  when  he  went  by,  and  she  scowled  and 
bit  her  thumb  at  him.  And  Scruton's  horses  were  lame, 
and  his  cows  were  gargety,  and  the  milk  was  bloody,  his 


54  THE  WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

wife  was  sick,  his  pigs  died,  and  Scruton  was  just  sure 
that  old  Moll  was  at  the  bottom  of  it  all.  Then,  as  he 
was  coming  home  from  Dover  one  day  with  too  much 
rum  in  him,  he  saw  the  old  witch  walking  along  the 
road.  He  tried  to  scare  her,  by  seeing  how  near  he  could 
come  to  her,  and  not  hit  her.  He  rode  too  near  and 
knocked  the  old  woman  head  over  heels  into  the  Canada 
thistles.  She  got  up  awful  mad,  cursed  him,  and  vowed 
revenge.  Then  Scruton's  chickens  disappeared.  His 
dog  died.  His  cat  was  found  in  the  well,  with  bone's  and 
old  boots,  and  one  night  when  the  cows  came  home,  he 
found  a  long  brass  pin  sticking  through  the  teat  of  one 
of  them.  He  had  as  much  as  he  could  do  to  pull  it  out 
the  cow  kicked  so.  He  got  it  out,  but  it  took  all  his 
strength  to  hold  it.  He  told  his  wife  to  bring  a  teakettle 
of  boiling  water,  and  to  put  a  piece  of  silver  and  a  leaf 
out  of  the  New  Testament  into  it,  and  she  did.  Then 
Nick  Scruton,  by  main  force,  put  the  pin  in  it.  Such  a 
blood-curdling  screech  as  came  out  of  that  teakettle  you 
never  heard,  no,  nor  never  will.  The  next  morning  the 
old  woman  was  found  at  her  own  door,  badly  scalded. 
Soon  she  disappeared,  cat  and  all.  .Doctor  Fernald  said 
she  went  ovei%  to  Lee  to  live  with  her  brother.  But  some 
folks  said  the  devil  flew  away  with  her,  some  such  night 
as  last  night  was,  and  if  you  don't  believe  the  story,  I  can 
take  you  up  to  Barrington  and  show  you  the  cellar-hole. 

"Do  you  believe  the  story,  Captain?"  asked  Roy. 

"Me?  Yes.  I  believe  it  is  about  the  biggest  lie  I  ever 
told,  but  that  is  all  the  kind  you  can  have,  if  you  want  a 
witch  story.  It  must  be  fictitious.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  But 
I  have  stayed  too  long.  I  shall  not  get  home  to  dinner. 
Good-by.  Come  up  and  see  us." 


DULL  WEATHER  IN  HAY  TIME.  55 

Now,  if  yon  have  never  been  present  at  a  farmer's  call, 
or,  it  may  be,  that  it  was  prolonged  to  a  visit,  you  have,  at 
least,  read  one.  Many  a  time,  on  a  rainy  or  snowy  day, 
or  of  an  evening,  have  I  drawn  the  cider,  got  the  apples, 
cracked  the  nuts,  and  heard  the  stories  of  the  Revolution, 
the  War  of  1812,  of  ghosts,  witches,  fairies,  enchantments, 
hunting,  fishing,  Indians,  cooking,  bee  hunts,  farming, 
woodcraft,  and,  goodness  knows  what,  of  the  folk  lore 
of  old  Strafford  County. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

HUCKLEBEEEIES. 

THE  haying  was  done,  and  well  done.  Of  course,  a 
good  farmer  is  always  on  the  .lookout  to  increase  the 
amount  of  food  for  house  .and  barn  alike,  in  order  to 
increase  the  income  of  his  farm.  But  Mr.  Guy  Bart- 
lett  liked  a  good  variety  of  home  comforts,  and  made 
it  a  point  to  secure  asparagus,  tomatoes,  and  many  others 
of  the  vegetable  kind,  and  the  wild  berries  as  well.  So, 
early  in  August,  after  breakfast,  he  said  :  "  Now,  boys, 
your  mother  and  I  think  it  will  be  best  to  take  a  drive  to 
the  heath,  and  pick  some  blueberries  and  huckleberries,  to 
dry  for  next  winter.  We  can  take  a  lunch  with  us,  and 
it  will  be  a  picnic  to-day,  and  puddings  and  pies  next 
winter." 

This  suited  Roy  and  Sam,  and  speedily  brought  old 
Tom  and  the  express  wagon,  with  two  seats  in  it,  to  the 
door ;  while  luncheon,  with  pails  and  dippers  galore, 
speedily  hid  themselves  under  the  seats,  ready  for  use. 
About  four  miles  from  the  City  Hall,  in  Dover,  is  the 
Tibbett's  farm,  now  called  the  Heath  House,  and  for  half 
a  mile  beyond  it,  to  Ezra  Hayes's,  is  the  birches.  It  is  a 
huckleberry  swamp  that,  if  you  will  reckon  far  enough 
back,  and  charge  enough  for  your  fruit,  has  raised  berries 
enough  to  pay  off  the  national  debt.  I  like  to  keep  right 
down  to  hard-pan  fact.  Not  every  year  are  they  a  bo- 
nanza, but  this  year  they  were.  Roy  drove  off  the  road 

56 


HUCKLEBERRIES.  57 

in  a  winter  path,  for  security  against  visitors.  Old  Tom 
was  made  comfortable  to  leave,  and  then  the  picking 
began.  It  was  a  sight  to  behold. 

"  There,"  said  Mr.  Bartlet,  "  I  have  seen  most  of  the 
fruits  of  the  earth,  growing  in  their  native  soil.  But  I 
never,  in  my  life,  saw  a  finer  natural  fruit  than  these  half- 
high  and  high-bush  blueberries,  when  the  bushes  are  blue 
with  them,  as  these  are." 

They  picked  with  a  will,  four  of  them.  Sometimes 
they  were  low  and  required  stooping.  Then,  again,  they 
were  from  six  to  ten  feet  high,  and  often  blue  with  ber- 
ries. Then  came  a  bush  of  black  ones.  Then,  again,  a 
bush  of  purple  choke  berries,  that  were  handsome  to  look 
at,  but  useless  to  eat.  Nature  likes  to  show  us  what  she 
might  have  done,  in  order  to  show  us  how  good  she  is. 
And  busy  hands  and  plenty  of  berries  gave  a  rich  reward. 
Often,  Roy  or  Sam  collected  the  berries,  and  bore  them 
to  the  wagon,  and,  with  a  kind  word  for  Tom,  returned 
to  picking.  Mrs.  Bartlett  moved  quietly  to  the  next 
bush,  when,  whirr !  went  a  large  bird  away  from  her  feet 
with  a  loud  noise  that  startled  her.  She  looked,  and 
there  at  her  feet  was  a  little  home,  a  partridge's  nest, 
with  ten  beautiful  dark  speckled  eggs  in  it.  They  were 
all  pleased  to  see  it,  and  to  look  at  it  attentively. 

"  Come,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett,  "  let  us  all  move  away,  and 
pick  elsewhere.  The  old  lady  will  want  to  cover  her 
eggs  again,  and  she  has  her  rights  in  the  world  as  well 
as  we." 

It  was  done.  A  few  minutes  later,  Sam  stood  beside  a 
large  clump  of  bushes,  picking  industriously.  In  the  mid- 
dle of  the  clump  was  a  birch  tree,  whose  roots  parted 
like  an  old-fashioned  light^stand,  and  it  left  a  hollow  un- 


58  THE  WILD  ARTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

derneath,  and  there,  behold!  in  peace  and  safety  was 
another  home,  and  in  it  sat  a  wild  rabbit.  Sam  smiled, 
and,  motioning  silence,  he  called  the  others  just  in  time 
to  see  puss  scud  out  and  away  from  the  strangers.  It 
was  a  sensible  wild  home.  It  was  up  above  the  water, 
sheltered  from  the  rain,  with  several  avenues  of  escape, 
for  those  whom  God  has  given  no  means  of  defence.  It 
is  a  pitiful  story  here,  but  they  look  at  it  differently,  after 
seeing  how  rabbits  multiply  in  Australia.  There  they 
are  a  calamity. 

"Come,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett,  "it  is  luncheon  time." 

It  was  spread  on  a  nice  shady  spot  of  grass,  near  the 
wagon,  and  old  Tom  quietly  took  his  oats  and  watched 
the  proceedings.  The  boys  were  a  little  curious  to  know 
what  kind  of  a  surprise  Aunt  Bartlett  had  prepared  for 
them.  It  was  a  good  one.  A  stuffed  fowl,  bread  and 
butter,  doughnuts  and  cheese,  an  apple  turnover  each, 
and  a  bottle  of  cold  coffee. 

"This,  with  plenty  of  berries,  is  enough,"  said 
Roy. 

"  Then  enough  is  as  good  as  a  feast,"  said  Mr. 
Bartlett. 

"  It  strikes  me  that  this  is  a  feast,"  said  Sam. 

"  I  am  glad  you  like  it,"  said  Mrs.  Bartlett. 

So  they  sat  or  reclined,  at  their  own  sweet  wills.  They 
made  remarks,  relevant  and- irrelevant,  and  they  voted  it 
a  harvest,  a  picnic,  and  a  red-letter  day  generally.  They 
told  stories.  They  rested  and  listened  to  the  voices  of 
the  woods,  as  Thoreau  listened. 

"  It  is  a  revelation,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett ;  "  what  wisdom 
it  is  to  make  the  best  of  everything,  and  to  have  a  happy, 
thankful  time.  Not  to  wrong  or  rip  anybody,  and  to 


HUCKLEBERRIES.  59 

keep  sweet  yourself.  I  remember  Gail  Hamilton  puts  it 
most  beautifully,  in  one  of  her  essays.  She  says :  '  Life 
is  a  burden,  but  God  has  laid  it  upon  us.  Whatever  you 
make  of  it,  that  it  will  be  to  you.  You  may  make  it  a 
millstone  around  your  neck,  or  a  diadem  upon  your  brow. 
Take  it  up  bravely,  bear  it  on  cheerfully.  Lay  it  down 
triumphantly.'  It  is  a  splendid  sentiment.  Ha  !  what  is 
this,  boys  ?  I  have  found  a  prize  ;  I  think  some  one  has 
camped  here  before.  It  is  a  fine  pocket-knife.  It  is 
almost  new,  and  evidently  lost  but  a  few  days.  I  guess  I 
am  about  seventy-five  cents  or  a  dollar  in,  by  finding  this 
nice  knife." 

"Good  luck,"  said  Sam.  "Here,  Aunt  Bartlett  has 
found  a  partridge's  nest,  I  have  found  a  rabbit's  form, 
Uncle  Bartlett  has  found  a  knife,  and  now,  Roy,  it  is 
your  turn." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Roy,  "  I  think  I  will  find  some  more 
berries." 

They  resumed  picking,  but  did  not  need  to  work  much 
more.  The  pails  were  filled  again,  and  Roy  began  to  look 
about  him.  As  he  stepped  away  to  a  heavily  laden  bush, 
he  saw  something  on  the  ground.  He  touched  it  with 
his  foot,  and  a  merry  smile  spread  over  his  face,  as  he 
called  to  his  mother :  "  Mother,  come.  I  have  found  my 
prize ! " 

She  came.  They  all  did.  And  Roy,  with  a  mischiev- 
ous laugh,  held  up  a  woman's  stockings,  and — er  —  gar- 
ters. "  Evil  to  him  who  thinks  evil  of  this,"  said  he. 

Said  Mrs.  Bartlett,  "  She  was  of  good  size,  and  tall ; 
for  these  are  long.  And  her  feet  were  small.  These  are 
hand-knit,  and  she  was  a  splendid  knitter.  They  are  fine, 
and  first-class,  and  the  elastics  are  tasty  and  costly.  They 


60  THE  WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

have  lain  here  only  two  or  three  days,  —  only  since  day 
before  yesterday,  when  it  was  so  hot.  She  took  them  off 
for  coolness,  and  lost  them  by  going  a  few  steps  from 
them.  But,  oh,  it  was  risky  to  go  to  Dover  without 
them." 

Sam  looked  at  Roy  in  the  queerest  way,  and  chuckled 
and  laughed,  to  the  amusement  of  them  all. 

Said  Roy,  "  I  guess  I  had  better  get  out  of  this  swamp, 
for  my  luck  is  so  peculiar  for  two  months  past  that 
heaven  only  knows  what  I  shall  run  into  next.  Now, 
mother,  you  please  take  charge  of  these  articles.  If 
Carlyle  had  found  them,  he  might  have  written  another 
*  Sartor  Resartus '  about  them.  Father  is  right  in  say- 
ing, that  one  is  always  finding  something  new  in  the 
country." 

" This  last  beats  them  all,"  said  Sam.  "I  have  been 
reading  a  Swedenborgian  book  lately.  It  tells  of  corre- 
spondences. I  think  there  is  something  in  it.  Aunt  Bart- 
lett  has  found  a  nest  full  of  eggs.  It  means  home  and 
plenty  for  her.  I  found  a  rabbit's  form,  which  means 
that  I  shall  have  a  home  and  be  a  farmer.  This  suits  me. 
Uncle  Bartlett  has  found  a  knife,  which  means  that  he 
shall  cut  his  own  bread  easy,  and  in  abundance.  But  this 
last  find  beats  them  all.  It  means  that  Roy  shall  have  a 
queen  of  his  own,  who  is  a  woman  to  be  proud  of;  and  I 
expect  it." 

"  Thank  you,  Sammy ;  and  the  same  to  you,"  said 
Roy. 

Often  the  remembrance  of  Roy's  find  brought  a  smile. 

"Come,  boys,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett,  "if  Roy  has  a  super- 
stition about  this  place,  I  think  we  will  go  home.  We 
have  a  fine  lot  of  berries  to-day;  enough  to  black  our 


HUCKLEBEIIEIES.  61 

mouths  up  good  several  times."  The  team  was  hitched 
up  again,  and,  as  the  shadows  lengthened,  they  rode 
home  just  in  time,  for  Aunt  Bartlett  to  get  supper,  and 
just  in  time  to  find  the  cows  lowing  in  the  lane  for 
admission  to  the  barn. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE    HUNT    FOB    BEAUTY. 

CANIS  MAJOR  had  been  left  at  home  on  guard,  and  told 
to  "look  out  for  it."  He  had  done  his  duty.  No  one 
had  been  allowed  to  enter  the  dooryard.  But  on  the 
square  top  of  the  gate  post  lay  a  stone  for  a  paper-weight, 
and  just  in  sight  of  every  one  who  lifted  the  latch  was  an 
envelope  of  a  letter,  and  above  it  was  written,  so  that  it 
was  made  to  do  duty  as  paper  and  signature,  — 

"  1  called,  and  found  Canis  Major  on  guard.  I  leave  kind 
regards,  and  will  call  again  soon. 

"  JOHN  Q.  HAYES." 

"  I  think  it  is  about  that  referee  case,"  said  Mr.  Bart- 
lett ;  "  so  we  will  be  at  home  for  a  few  days,  to  meet  our 
caller." 

It  was  their  habit  to  look  over  their  farm,  and  see  what 
permanent  improvement  was  most  needed  to  make  work 
easy  and  profitable,  and  to  make  the  handsomest  home 
and  pay  the  most  of  use  and  beauty.  So  when  a  very 
dry  time  came,  after  haying,  some  low  place,  that  had  at 
last  gone  dry,  had  the  black  loam  removed,  then  the  bed 
was  raised  with  stones  and  soil,  with  suitable  drainage, 
and  then  the  dark  loam  was  replaced  over  it  all,  and  it 
was  fertilized  and  sown  to  grass  again  ;  and,  oh,  you  ought 
to  see  the  herds-grass  grow  1  They  wanted  no  eyesores 
on  their  farm. 

62 


THE   HUNT   FOR   BEAUTY.  63 

Said  Mr.  Bartlett,  as  he  paused  on  the  next  improve- 
ment, "  Boys,  life  moves  in  circles.  There  is  an  old  hymn' 
which  says,  '  Thy  days  are  one  eternal  round  ; '  and  it  is 
true.  Work  and  harvest  are  at  once  cause  and  effect 
forever.  I  was  once  travelling  on  a  Mississippi  steamer, 
and  a  Southerner  scraped  acquaintance  with  me.  He 
asked  as  many  questions  as  ever  any  Yankee  did  in  the 
same  time,  and  he  told  me  he  was  going  down  to  New 
Orleans  to  sell  his  cotton,  to  buy  more  niggers,  to  raise 
more  cotton  to  buy  more  niggers.  So  life  is  the  same 
treadmill." 

"  Yes,"  said  Roy.  "  But  we  have  more  than  the  usual 
amount  planted ;  we  have  made  more  than  the  usual 
amount  of  improvements ;  we  can  keep  more  stock,  and 
enrich  the  farm  more.  We  are  gaining  every  way.  I 
happen  to  know  that  Captain  Hayes  will  be  at  an  Ortho- 
dox installation  to-morrow ;  so  I  move  that  we  go  on  an 
excursion  to  the  summit  of  Blue  Job." 

"All  right,  Roy,  we  will  go." 

It  was  a  beautiful  September  day.  The  chores  were 
done  early.  Then  the  light  wagon,  with  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Bartlett,  was  soon  followed  by  Roy  and  Sam,  in  another 
light  hitch.  Whoever  rides  for  pleasure,  in  a  pleasant 
time  and  in  a  pleasant  place,  will  always  find  it,  if  they 
are  pilgrims  of  beauty,  in  the  way  they  ought  to  be. 
Even  the  desert  is  a  succession  of  surprises,  and  often 
teeming  with  life.  These  people  had  a  good  time, 
for  they  took  it  with  them.  Up  the  road,  passing  Green 
Hill,  with  its  one  tree  near  the  summit,  past  Elisha 
Locke's  house  and  mills,  through  the  Gonic  and  Rochester 
to  Merrill's  Corner,  in  Farmington,  and  farther  by  a 
crooked,  well-known  road,  until  their  horses  were  left 


64  THE  WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

with  friends ;  then,  with  baskets  in  hand,  the  party  was 
slowly  ascending  the  steep  sides  of  Blue  Job.  Take  it  easy. 
There  is  much  to  see.  How  the  view  extends  as  you 
climb  up.  Not  dangerous  at  all,  but  still  it  is  a  good 
journey,  and  it  pays  well  to  take  it.  The  summit  was 
reached,  and  then  the  view ! 

Said  Mr.  Bartlett,  "Now  look!  To  the  north  is  the 
next  range  of  hills,  of  which  the  Gunstock  Mountain  is 
the  prominent  one,  and  just  beyond  it  is  Lake  Winnepe- 
saukee.  Away  to  the  northwest  is  the  Western  Kear- 
sarge,  whose  summit  is  in  Wilmot.  Near  it  is  Warner, 
where  lives  Levi  Bartlett,  the  compiler  of  the  Bartlett 
genealogy.  West  of  us  is  the  great  Blue  Hill,  larger  and 
higher  than  Blue  Job.  South  of  us  is  all  this  beautiful 
rolling  country,  with  Strafford  Ridge  and  the  towns 
below,  extending  away  to  the  ocean.  There,  the  three 
pine-trees  that  locate  Great  Falls.  Farther  to  the  right 
is  Mount  Agamenticus,  —  and  a  beauty  it  is.  The  fact 
is,  I  never  feel  the  majesty  of  God,  and  the  nobility  of 
man,  as  when  I  can  see  his  wonderful  works  from  some 
mighty  mountain  top. 

"  '  Who  loves  not  Nature  suffers  every  need, 
Who  most  enjoys  it,  he  is  blest  indeed.'  " 

"  Then  you  think,"  said  Roy,  "  that  our  best  loves  are 
cultivated." 

"Yes,  I  do ;  and  our  meaner  loves  as  well.  Such  as  the 
loves  of  vice  and  dissipation." 

"  Then  I  suppose,"  added  Roy,  "  that  it  becomes  us  to 
choose  the  noblest  loves  and  to  reject  all  others." 

"Certainly." 


THE   HUNT   FOR   BEAUTY.  65 

"  Well,"  said  Roy,  "  I  feel  now  a  strong  love,  not  a  par- 
ticularly noble  one,  but  it  gains  on  me.  Will  you  please 
explain  it,  father  ?  " 

"  What  is  it,  Roy  ?  " 

"  The  love  of  my  dinner." 

"  You  always  had  it.     Born  so,"  said  his  mother. 

"  And  you  remember,  mother,  that  it  is  your  favorite 
theory  that  a  boy  '  takes  after '  his  mother  and  a  girl 
after  her  father.  So  I  came  honestly  by  it." 

Sam  was  much  amused  when  Roy  and  his  mother 
sparred,  and  Roy  usually  came  off  best. 

"  Come,  mother ;  you  will  have  no  peace  until  you  feed 
your  chickens." 

It  was  done ;  and  while  they  feasted  the  inner  man,  the 
eyes  could  wander  nearly  around  the  horizon,  bounded 
only  by  the  hills  of  New  Hampshire,  from  twenty  to  fifty 
miles  away. 

"  Aunt  Bartlett  is  a  commissary-general  worth  having," 
said  Sam  Ellet.  "  She  always  keeps  her  army  well  sup- 
plied and  happy.  This  makes  loyal  and  good  soldiers." 

"  There  is  a  theory,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett,  "  that  it  is  not 
good  to  use  a  soldier  too  well.  He  expects  too  much,  and 
it  makes  a  molly-coddle  of  him." 

"  I  think,"  said  Roy,  "  that  saying  has  very  little  truth 
in  it.  Almost  all  evidence  goes  to  show  that  men  do 
better  if  well  used.  A  '  lean  and  hungry  Cassius '  does 
think  too  much,  and  his  thoughts  are  not  of  the  kind  they 
would  be  if  he  was  better  fed.  But  we  have  a  feast  of 
body  and  mind  both  to-day.  I  do  love  the  hills,  and 
especially  the  hills  of  my  native  State.  To  be  able  to 
picture  them  in  all  their  might  and  beauty  is  a  joy  in- 
deed. I  had  rather  be  S.  F.  Smith,  who  wrote,  — 


66  THE  WILD  AKTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

'  I  love  thy  rocks  and  rills, 
Thy  woods  and  templed  hills ; 
My  heart  with  rapture  thrills, 
Like  that  above,' 

in  his  beautiful  hymn,  and  be,  like  him,  the  voice  of 
loyalty,  praise,  and  patriotism  through  countless  genera- 
tions, than  to  be  any  president  since  Washington.  The 
poets  outlive  the  historians,  although  frequently  the  poets 
are  the  historians.  Bayard  Taylor  has  written  in  his 
fine  novel,  '  Hannah  Thurston,'  of  one  of  his  characters, 
'Nature  had  not  given  1dm  her  highest  gift,  that  of 
expression.'  When  in  the  capitol,  the  forum,  the  pulpit, 
as  musician,  author,  actor,  painter,  or  poet,  it  is  one  great 
gift,  partly  given,  partly  acquired,  and  it  makes  a  man  a 
king  among  men.  In  these  times,  a  man  who  ministers 
to  the  sense  of  beauty,  ranks  much  higher  than  one  who 
ministers  to  the  blessings  of  use." 

"  Jess  so,"  said  Sam.  "  And  Roy  has  given  his  opinion 
a  splendid  expression.  But,  for  all  that,  I  suppose  that  a 
hundred  people  must  work  for  use  where  one  is  demanded 
as  a  minister  of  art,  literature,  or  any  form  of  beauty,  and 
so,  although  I  will  learn  to  appreciate  nature  and  art, 
books  and  beauty,  I  shall  be  content  with  the  beauty  that 
lies  in  the  greatest  use,  while  I  do  what  I  can  to  feed  the 
world  and  keep  from  being  hungry." 

"Then  it  seems,"  said  Mrs.  Bartlett,  "that  we  have  a 
prophet  of  use  and  one  of  beauty,  besides  an  old  man  arid 
woman  not  yet  classified." 

This  made  them  laugh. 

"That  is  not  a  good  way  of  telling  it,"  said  Roy. 
"  What  we  really  have  is  Lord  and  Lady  Bartlett,  both 
alike  prophets  of  use  and  beauty,  and  two  young  sprouts 


THE  HUNT   FOR   BEAUTY.  67 

who  are  trying  to  follow  the  example  of  their  illustrious 
predecessors." 

" Roy,"  said  his  mother,  "I  should  think  you  had  been 
to  Blarney.  If  you  ever  do  get  in  love  with  a  woman, 
she  will  have  to  surrender  like  Davy  Crockett's  coons. 
They  knew  he  was  a  sure  shot,  so  they  said,  'Don't 
shoot,  we  will  come  down.' " 

This  turned  the  laugh  on  Roy.  They  walked  around 
the  summit,  and  drank  in  the  inspiration  of  the  hills. 

Said  Mr.  Bartlett,  "I  think  if  we  were  here  in  the 
evening,  when  a  full  moon  was  rising,  we  should  plainly 
see  a  long  white  strip  of  silver  light,  which  is  the  ocean. 
I  have  seen  it  plainly  from  West  Northwood,  not  far 
from  here,  where  the  land  is  not  as  high  as  we  are.  It  is 
a  beautiful  sight.  You  would  not  think  it  possible  to  see 
farther  by  moonlight  than  by  day,  but  sometimes  it  is  so. 
Now,  Roy,  if  you  have  that  sketch  done,  we  had  better 
bid  good-by  to  the  summit  and  return." 

They  did  return,  and  by  a  road  more  direct,  passing 
through  Barrington,  at  the  eastern  end  of  Ayer's  pond, 
and  coming  down  by  George  McDaniel's  and  the  old 
Methodist  meeting-house,  on  the  road  towards  Dover. 
It  had  been  a  good  day.  It  had  filled  their  minds  with 
bright,  healthy  pictures  for  time  to  come.  A  man's  mind 
wants  to  be  furnished  and  ornamented  as  much  as  his 
body.  It  had  been  a  lesson  in  nature  and  art  to  Roy. 


CHAPTER  X. 

A   LAWSUIT   PREVENTED    AND    A   FARMER'S    VISIT. 

THE  next  two  days  were  bright  September  days. 

"Hoy,"  asked  Mr.  Bartlett,  "  what  ought  we  to  do  to- 
day?" 

"  There  is  one  job  I  should  like  to  do  before  I  go  away. 
There  are  two  or  three  stones  in  the  great  field  that  I  should 
like  to  sink  out  of  the  way  of  plough  or  mowing  machine 
forever." 

"  It  is  a  dangerous  work, "  said  his  father. 

"  Then  I  will  conduct  it  so  it  will  be  safe,"  said  Roy. 

And  he  did.  On  the  evening  of  the  second  day,  the 
stones  that  had  projected  above  ground,  and  had  always 
been  in  the  way,  had  quietly  sunk  beneath  the  surface, 
away  from  the  plough  forever.  It  was  a  permanent 
good.  In  the  evening  Sam  read  the  papers;  Mrs. 
Bartlett  did  her  part  to  make  the  evenings  pleasant ;  Roy 
worked  on  his  sketches,  played  the  cabinet  organ,  or 
read,  and  the  evenings  were  pleasant  at  home. 

The  day  following,  it  rained.  They  were  in  the  ample 
sitting-room.  Soon  Neighbor  Hoskins  called  in,  and  he 
was  welcomed.  Yes,  his  family  were  well;  Mary  was 
well  and  Will  Glance  was  living  with  them  ;  at  present 
he  was  steady,  and  working  moderately.  All  hoped  he 
would  do  well.  So  they  left  it.  Nobody  rejoiced.  A 
carriage  drove  up.  It  was  Captain  John  Q.  Hayes. 
Shake  hands  and  hearty  greetings  all  around. 


LAWSUIT  PREVENTED  AND  A  FARMER'S  VISIT.    69 

"Now,"  said  he,  "business  first,  and  then  I  shall  not 
forget  it.  Mr.  Bartlett,  your  opinion  of  how  that  prop- 
erty should  be  divided  and  settled,  is  accepted  by  both 
parties,  as  the  fairest  and  best  that  can  be  done,  with  one 
exception.  You  have  left  out  the  interest  of  the  best 
man  in  it.  That  is  yourself ;  they  all  say  so.  They  have 
signed  an  agreement,  accordingly,  provided  that  you  ac- 
cept fifty  dollars  for  your  services ;  otherwise  they  won't 
settle  at  all,  and  will  act  just  as  bad  as  they  can.  Each 
party  contributes  half,  so  you  see  they  look  out  for  your 
interest  as  well  as  you  for  theirs.  Here  is  the  money.  I 
am  instructed  not  to  take  'no'  for  an  answer.  Here, 
please  sign  this  receipt." 

They  all  were  pleased. 

Said  Mrs.  Bartlett, "  Now  we  can  see  which  the  con- 
trary one  is." 

"  All  right,  Captain.  I  will  take  it,  but  if  they  have 
any  trouble  in  settling,  they  must  call  on  me  again,  and  if 
they  do  not  settle  kindly  and  peaceably,  I  must  return 
the  money."  And  the  receipt  was  signed. 

"Did  you  catch  many  foxes  last  winter,  Captain?" 
asked  Roy. 

"  Yes,  several." 

"  How  did  you  manage?  " 

"  Ah  !  you  young  folks  want  a  story,  do  you  ?  Yes,  I 
catch  foxes  when  I  can,  because  they  eat  my  poultry,  and 
occasionally  steal  a  lamb.  Besides  when  I  do  catch  one, 
in  the  right  season,  his  pelt  brings  me  a  dollar  and  a  half, 
or  more.  So  you  see  catching  foxes  helps  farming  both 
ways.  About  forty  rods  in  the  rear  of  my  barn  is  an  old 
oak  stump.  It  is  in  about  the  middle  of  a  small,  open 
pasture.  I  fed  the  sheep  around  that  stump  so  as  to 


70  THE   WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

have  a  lot  of  orts  scattered  around,  to  make  it  look  kind 
o'  natural.  Then  when  we  killed  a  fowl,  or  had  fresh 
meat,  I  put  the  odds  and  ends  near  the  old  stump.  The 
foxes  found  it  soon  enough,  so  I  set  a  smart,  well-oiled 
fox-trap  at  the  stump,  covered  it  up  with  hayseed,  and 
next  morning  I  had  a  large  he-fox.  His  skin  sold  for  two 
dollars.  The  next  morning  I  had  his  mate.  Then  I 
had  nothing  for  a  week.  Then  I  put  my  trap  down  with 
extra  care,  —  put  the  bait  in  a  crevice  of  the  stump 
beyond  the  trap,  and  for  three  mornings  in  succession  I 
found  the  bait  gone,  the  trap  sprung  and  turned  bottom 
upward.  Then  I  knew  I  had  an  awful  long-headed  old 
fox  to  measure  wits  with.  And  here  was  the  problem. 
An  Orthodox  deacon  playing  a  game  of  deceit  with  an  old 
fox,  for  his  skin.  So  I  set  the  trap  bottom  upwards,  put 
a  few  drops  of  anise  around  it,  and  left  it.  The  next 
morning  I  had  him  by  his  fore  paw.  The  fool  had  turned 
the  trap,  and  then,  supposing  it  safe,  had  trod  on  the 
trencher  and  got  caught.  He  was  a  splendid  specimen, 
of  a  rare  kind.  He  was  a  silver-gray  fox.  I  got  fifteen 
dollars  for  his  skin.  It  was  a  beauty ! " 

"  Gracious  ! "  said  Sam. 

"  Then  I  caught  three  young  foxes,  but  well  grown.  I 
got  one  dollar  apiece  for  their  skins.  After  that  for  a 
month  I  got  nothing.  I  put  the  bait  around  the  sturnp, 
but  the  foxes  got  the  benefit  of  it.  When  I  came  to  ex- 
amine the  tracks  in  a  light  snow,  I  found  it  was  one 
large  fox,  and  some  few  hairs  that  he  had  scratched  off 
told  that  he  was  a  black  one.  I  wanted  his  pelt  very 
much,  and  I  studied  on  it.  One  night  I  caught  a  mouse. 
He  was  standing  up  straight  and  frozen  stiff.  I  then  set 
the  trap  in  a  little  hollow,  ten  feet  away  from  the  stum]) ; 


LAWSUIT  PREVENTED  AND  A  FARMER'S  VISIT.    71 

I  fastened  the  chain  to  a  spike  driven  into  the  frozen 
ground.  Then  I  covered  the  trap  with  a  thin  dark 
brown  paper,  scattered  the  hayseed  over  it,  and  left  the 
frozen  mouse  fastened  to  the  trencher.  It  looked  alive  ; 
you  would  have  been  sure  the  mouse  was  just  ready  to 
run.  I  found  the  next  morning  that  the  fox  had  looked 
at  it  the  same  way,  for  he  had  run  and  put  both  paws  on 
the  mouse  to  catch  him,  and  so  I  had  the  fox  firm  and 
fast  by  both  fore  paws.  He  was  a  fine  black  fox,  the 
only  one  I  ever  caught." 

"  It  is  a  good  thing,"  said  Mr.  Hoskins,  "  to  have  such 
a  Nirarod  as  you  are,  to  clear  out  our  foxes.  It  makes 
poultry  possible." 

"Did  you  ever  get  young  foxes?"  asked  Sara. 

"  Yes,  indeed.  We  burned  over  a  piece  of  land  on  Scru- 
ton's  plains,  last  summer,  and  we  got  four  young  foxes, 
one  litter  about  a  quarter  grown.  They  lived  and  did 
well.  We  did  not  wish  to  keep  them  all,  so  we  gave 
away  two  of  them.  They  were  as  affectionate  as  puppies 
except  when  you  gave  them  fresh  meat ;  especially 
chicken.  Then  their  eyes  were  like  balls  of  fire  un- 
til the  meat' was  eaten;  but  in  a  moment  after,  they  were 
on  their  good  behavior  again,  and,  O,  so  glad  to  see  you. 
One  night  the  shed  door  blew  open,  and  the  dog  got  in 
and  killed  them  both.  That  finished  my  foxes." 

Said  Roy,  "  Captain,  I  always  like  to  hear  older  peo- 
ple talk,  for  they  have  had  a  good  experience,  and  know 
something.  I  always  learn  something  new  and  refresh- 
ing. Now  please  tell  me,  Captain,  did  you  ever  see  or 
know  of  anything  in  your  own  personal  experience,  that 
was  clearly  supernatural  ?  " 

"  Well,  Roy,  I   doubt  if  there  is  or  can  be  anything 


72  THE  WILD   ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

supernatural.  All  life,  in  the  body  or  out,  is  natural.  I 
think  you  mean  to  ask  me  if  I  ever  saw  any  work  or 
movement  of  living  beings  with  no  visible  body.  Yes,  I 
have  known  some  things  that  I  could  not  account  for.  I 
had  a  boy  once,  who  worked  for  me.  He  was  steady, 
tough,  and  well  as  any  boy  I  ever  saw.  One  day  he  was 
hoeing  in  the  corn  with  me,  and  a  little  brown  bird  came 
and  lit  on  him  again  and  again.  The  boy  could  not 
drive  him  away.  The  bird  would  keep  close  to  him,  and 
did  all  day.  It  was  his  last  day's  work.  He  told  his 
mother  of  it,  and  she  said  sorrowfully  that  it  was  a  sure 
sign  of  trouble.  He  was  buried  in  two  weeks,  of  typhoid 
fever.  I  do  not  know  as  there  was  any  connection 
between  the  bird  and  the  fever,  but  I  think  of  them  to- 
gether, always." 

"  Then,"  said  Hoy,  "  although  we  may  regard  the  story 
as  true,  yet  the  inference  is  doubtful." 

"Certainly.     You  can  infer  what  you  like." 

"  Now,  please  tell  me,  Captain,  did  you  ever  hear  any- 
thing of  the  same  kind  from  reliable  people  whom  you 
could  believe  ?  " 

"I  will  tell  you  a  story,  Roy,  and  you  can  judge  for 
yourself.  If  I  give  you  all  the  evidence  and  you  make 
up  the  verdict  you  cannot  blame  me.  You  have  all 
heard  of  old  Aunt  Debby  Watkins,  that  lived  over  be- 
yond Hick's  Hill,  on  the  road  to  the  Gunket.  Well,  she 
was  an  honest,  God-fearing  woman,  and  told  the  truth  in 
all  else  and  why  not  in  this  ?  And  here  is  her  story : 
'Lige  Glen  lived  a  mile  beyond  her.  His  right  name  was 
Elijah,  and  no  man  was  less  like  the  prophet  Elijah  than 
'Lige  Glen.  He  was  drunken,  ugly,  profane,  dishonest, 
and  dirty,  outside  and  in.  His  children  were  neglected 


LAWSUIT  PREVENTED  AND  A  FARMER'S  VISIT.     73 

and  abused.  They  all  died  young.  People  said,  and 
some  were  bad  enough  to  know,  that  he  had  sold  himself 
to  the  devil  for  so  much  money,  for,  strange  to  say,  'Lige 
Glen  did  nothing  to  make  any  money,  but  he  always  had 
it.  Pie  did  not  toil  or  spin.  If  there  was  a  black,  gusty 
night,  'Lige  was  always  out  wandering  round.  In  a  hard 
gale  or  thunderstorm  he  was  always  gone,  and  his  wife 
left  alone.  People  said  he  finished  her,  and  I  guess  he 
did.  It  is  always  said,  if  a  man  is  sold  unto  sin,  long 
life  is  not  for  him,  certainly  not  beyond  the  common  age 
of  man.  So,  one  foggy  afternoon,  late,  a  dark-complex- 
ioned man  called  and  asked  Aunt  Debby  if  she  would  go 
down  and  watch  with  Glen.  He  was  very  sick,  and  she 
took  her  Bible  in  her  pocket,  for  safety  and  to  read  in, 
and  went  to  watch  with  the  sick  man.  There  was  no  one 
in  the  house  but  'Lige.  There  was  a  little  fire  in  the  old 
fireplace,  and  plenty  of  wood  handy.  She  put  on  a  log, 
and  asked  if  she  could  do  anything  for  the  sufferer.  He 
asked  not  much,  tasted  little  water,  dozed  a  little,  and 
waked  again  about  midnight.  Aunt  Debby  was  read- 
ing her  Bible  by  the  light  of  one  tallow  candle,  when  she 
was  startled  by  seeing  a  monstrous  big  black  dog  push 
open  the  door,  go  up  to  the  bed,  and  begin  to  whisper  in 
'Lige  Glen's  ear.  They  talked  in  an  unknown  language, 
for  the  old  windows  rattled,  and  the  candle  flared  in  the 
wind.  She  could  see  the  two  horrible  black  heads  to- 
gether, and  the  dog  seemed  to  be  giving  orders,  while 
Glen's  eyes  opened  wider.  But  he  seemed  to  have  no 
power  to  dispute  a  word,  and  the  horrid  dog  or  devil,  or 
whatever  it  was,  put  his  nose  into  'Lige's  face,  and  stayed 
as  long  as  he  liked.  Aunt  Debby  had  not  power  to  lift  a 
finger.  After  a  long  time,  he  moved  slowly  away  from 


74  THE   WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

the  bed,  out  into  the  kitchen,  and,  by  the  noise,  he 
seemed  to  go  down,  down  into  the  earth.  After  sitting  a 
long  time,  and  seeing  a  light  strip  of  sky  in  the  east,  she 
rose  and  looked  at  the  old  long  clock  in  the  corner,  then 
lighted  another  candle  and  looked  at  'Lige  Glen.  He  was 
dead  and  cold.  I  think  this  story  is  a  fact,"  said  Cap- 
tain Hayes.  "Now  what  do  you  make  of  it,  Roy  ? " 

"  I  know  nothing  of  it,"  said  Roy. 

"  What  do  you,  Sam  ?  " 

"  It  sticks  me,"  said  Sam. 

"  Mr.  Hoskins,  what  do  you  say  ?  " 

"  Looks  fishy,"  said  he. 

Captain  Hayes  laughed.  "  Mr.  Bartlett,  you  are  good 
as  referee.  What  say  you  ?" 

"  I  should  need  more  evidence  before  I  put  in  my 
verdict." 

"  Mrs.  Bartlett,  what  do  you  say  ?  " 

"  Say  ?  Why,  I  should  put  in  an  interrogation  point 
as  long  as  from  here  to  Durham,  after  such  a  story  as 
that." 

"  Well,"  said  the  Captain,  "  I  have  told  the  story  as 
she  did,  as  she  was  a  simple,  truthful  woman.  Now,  I 
will  tell  my  part  of  the  story.  Later,  I  was  called,  on  be- 
half of  the  town,  to  look  over  the  farm  and  personal 
property,  and  to  appraise  them,  for  'Lige  Glen  left  no 
heirs.  We  found,  to  our  astonishment,  that  in  an  under- 
ground cellar  which  connected  with  the  sheds  was  a  lot 
of  counterfeiters'  dies  and  moulds,  with  some  unfinished 
halves  and  Mexican  dollars.  In  one  corner  was  a  lot  of 
old  duds,  well  felted  in  with  black  hair,  which  told  the 
story  of  the  nest  of  a  large,  short-haired  black  mas- 
tiff. This  accounted  for  the  milk  in  the  cocoanut.  Soon 


LAWSUIT  PREVENTED  AND  A  FARMER'S  VISIT.     75 

after  this  the  house  and  its  contents  were  burned.  Nev- 
ertheless, I  think  'Lige  Glen  sold  himself  to  the  devil. 
Bad  men  always  do.  Come,  Mr.  Hoskins,  it  is  your 
turn." 

"  All  right  then.  Did  you  ever  hear  old  Jake  Hodg- 
man  tell  stories  ?  " 

Captain  Hayes  said  he  had,  for  Jake  had  the  reputa- 
tion of  being  the  biggest  liar  in  Dover. 

"  Once,"  said  Mr.  Hoskins,  "  I  asked  him  why  he  told 
such  wild  stories.  Says  he,  I  will  tell  you.  You  know 
my  father  had  a  small  farm,  and  when  apples  were  plenty 
he  had  apples  enough  and  to  sell,  and  he  made  two  or 
three  barrels  of  cider.  The  old  man  liked  to  tell  large 
stories  of  what  his  farm  would  do,  but  one  year  he  had 
only  one  barrel  of  cider.  Along  came  old  Doctor 
Woodbury,  one  day,  and  my  father  was  bragging  to 
him  about  what  his  farm  would  raise,  and  how  much 
cider  it  would  make,  when  the  doctor  said  he  should  like 
to  taste  his  cider.  Father  called  to  me,  Jake,  Jake, 
go  down  cellar  and  get  a  pitcher  of  cider  out  of  the  cask 
that  is  tapped  in  the  third  row.  Said  I,  What  do  you 
mean  by  that,  father  ?  You  know  there  is  but  one 
barrel  in  the  cellar,  and  that  ain't  full.  Then  draw  it 
out  of  that,  he  roared,  and  I  drew  the  cider.  But  the 
old  man  licked  me  like  the  devil  for  telling  the  truth, 
and  it  broke  me  of  it,  so  I  have  never  told  it  since. 
Whether  this  was  truth  or  not,  you  can  judge,"  said 
Mr.  Hoskins.  "  He  always  stuck  to  it  that  he  never 
told  it ;  but  some  of  these  wild  romancers  are  very  enter- 
taining people." 

Said  Captain  Hayes,  rising,  "  It  is  time  to  go.  We 
have  had  a  sociable  time.  '  Peace  be  unto  you.'  " 


76  THE  WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

"  Please  wait  a  moment,"  said  Roy.  "  Sam,  will  you 
please  get  some  cider  out  of  the  third  row  ?  but  if  there 
is  only  one  in  the  cellar,  then  get  it  out  of  that." 

Sam  did  it  with  a  wide  smile.  Each  one  moistened 
his  clay  without  for  a  moment  suspecting  that  he  was  not 
a  temperance  man.  Guy  Bartlett  was  fifty  dollars  richer 
for  honor  and  honesty,  good  reading  and  good  judgment, 
and  the  heirs  of  a  large  estate  had  found  a  peaceful  set- 
tlement in  place  of  a  long  and  expensive  wrangle. 
"  Blessed  are  the  peacemakers." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE   ADVENTURES    OF   JIM   CAMEL. 

SEPTEMBER  was  passing  away,  and  it  was  coming  to  be 
well  known  among  the  many  friends  of  the  Bartlett 
family  that  Roy  was  going  to  Boston  in  October.  As 
the  evenings  grew  longer,  they  had  more  neighborly  calls 
from  many  who  wanted  to  give  him  a  kind  word  before 
he  went.  So,  almost  every  evening,  the  parlor  and 
sitting-room  were  both  lighted,  and  callers  came  from 
Garrison  Hill,  Dover,  Knox  Marsh,  Littleworth,  Tollend, 
Madbury,  or  Barrington.  It  was  almost  an  ovation. 
Sometimes  the  evening  ended  with  a  "  sing,"  and  the  old 
family  names  of  Hall,  Wheeler,  Flagg,  Perkins,  Young, 
Kitteredge,  Woodman,  Twombly,  Hayes,  Wentworth, 
and  Waldron  were  well  represented.  Smart  young  fel- 
lows and  wide-awake  girls,  with  plenty  of  fun  and  music. 
One  evening  they  had  debated  whether  to  sing  or  read 
selections.  They  had  decided  on  selections,  and  as  it  was 
well  known  that  Roy  sometimes  wrote  very  entertain- 
ingly, it  was  voted  that  he  must  read  some  of  his  own 
work.  He  complied  by  going  to  his  room  and  return- 
ing with  a  manuscript  entitled,  — 

The  Adventures  of  Jim  Camel  in  Amazonia. 

About  fifty  years  ago,  there  came  to  Green  Hill  a  full- 
sized,  roughish-looking  man,  whom  everybody  knew  as 
Jim  Camel.  He  stayed  at  the  farms  where  he  first  came, 

77 


78  THE  WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

working  for  low  wages,  if  any,  and  getting  food,  shelter, 
and  home.  There  he  lived  until  he  was  beginning  to  be 
an  old  man  and  there  he  died  and  was  buried.  But  he 
was  a  remarkable  man.  I  have  heard  people  say  he  was 
an  awful  liar,  but  that  is  not  a  fair  statement  for  these 
days.  It  would  be  better  to  say  that  Jim  Camel  was 
possessed  of  an  ornamental  and  prolific  imagination.  He 
recounted  the  most  elaborate  fictions,  as  if  he  solemnly 
believed  every  word  he  said.  He  had  been  a  sailor. 
Many  of  the  tales  he  told  of  foreign  lands  were  regular, 
and  did  no  violence  to  geography.  Some  were  a  little 
mixed.  When  he  had  a  large  damp  of  cider  or  New 
England  rum,  his  stories  were  richer,  but  did  not  jibe  quite 
as  well  as  usual.  For  instance;  once  when  in  that  condi- 
tion he  told  of  being  in  a  country,  and  seeing  blackberries 
very,  very  plenty.  Each  one  was  a  mouthful,  and,  he 
added,  you  know  my  mouth  is  not  a  small  one.  He  said 
he  had  a  large,  thick  club,  that  he  used  as  a  cane  to  walk 
with.  This  he  tucked  under  his  arm  and  for  a  long  time 
picked  blackberries  with  both  hands.  Very  busy  he  was 
indeed  not  to  notice  a  great  black  bear  as  big  as  a  horse, 
that  was  picking  berries  as  fast  as  he  was.  The  bear  let 
out  a  growl  and  Jim  Camel  was  awake.  He  hit  the  bear 
on  his  snout  and  the  bear  retreated.  Jim  followed  up 
and  kept  that  club  turning  and  whizzing  in  the  air  so  fast 
that  you  could  not  see  the  club  at  all,  only  a  big  blur 
before  the  bear.  Camel  followed  up  and  kept  the  bear 
in  full  retreat  until  in  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  drove 
him  into  a  big  snowdrift  and  killed  him.  He  saw  no  in- 
consistency in  such  a  story,  but  when  he  had  a  good 
listener  he  often  told  new  and  wildly  original  yarns,  for 
their  benefit  alone. 


THE  ADVENTURES   OP  JIM  CAMEL.  79 

We  were  talking  of  chopping  cordwood,  one  day. 
Pshaw!  said  ho,  people  around  Green  Hill  don't  know 
what  chopping  is.  You  ought  to  have  seen  the  chopping 
I  did  on  that  voyage  when  I  was  cast  away  among  the 
Amazons,  in  South  America.  Holy  Moses!  trees  twelve 
to  fifteen  feet  through,  women  twelve  to  fifteen  feet  high. 
Ah  !  that  was  a  country  !  Tell  us  the  story  of  the  whole 
voyage,  Jim.  But  Avait ;  I'll  get  a  mug  of  old  cider  out 
of  the  heart  of  a  barrel.  There  now,  Jim,  how's  that. 
Well,  well,  that's  good.  That'll  thaw  out  a  man's  in'ards 
so  there  won't  be  no  icicles  on  his  liver.  How  that  old 
fireplace  does  heat  up.  Guess  the  weather  is  moderating, 
ain't  it?  The  hearers  laughed.  Now  I  was  just  sayin' 
it  was  a  wonderful  voyage.  You  see,  the  ship  was  a 
large  one  and  an  old  one,  an'  she  carried  a  crew  of  forty 
men  ;  you  see  it  didn't  need  so  many  to  work  the  vessel, 
but  the  captain  was  half  owner  and  he  wanted  men 
enough  to  defend  her  if  she  got  into  a  dangerous  place. 
I  said  the  ship  was  an  old  one,  and  some  of  the  men  said 
she  was  haunted,  for  she  had  been  more  than  one  voyage 
catching  blackbirds  on  the  coast  of  Africa.  That  is 
enough  to  haunt  any  ship  and  spile  her  luck.  The  cap- 
tain's name  was  Keniston.  I  never  heard  his  first  name, 
but  I  s'pose  he  had  one.  Some  of  the  crew  said  the 
night  before  the  Mary  Jane  sailed,  that  the  rats  went 
ashore  all  night  long  on  the  gangway  plank,  an'  if  I  had 
knowed  it  I  would  have  gone  ashore  too.  But  I  sailed 
in  the  Mary  Jane  of  Boston,  with  thirty-nine  other  good 
men,  all  told.  "We  went  along  all  right  for  a  few  days, 
an'  it  was  watch  an'  watch.  We  had  our  tin  dipper  of 
black  coffee,  an'  our  sea-bread  an'  beef.  Now  an'  then 
we  had  a  lobscouse,  or  a  duff,  or  a  dundy  funk  puddin'. 


80  THE  WILD   ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

But  the  captain  was  surly  an'  the  mate  was  a  hog  an' 
always  ready  to  hit  a  man.  The  crew  are  allers  apt  to 
follow  a  bad  example.  When  we  got  into  the  horse 
latitudes  the  gales  came  on,  an'  then  it  was,  call  all  hands, 
an'  the  ship  rollin'  bad.  The  foresail  was  an  old  one,  an' 
a  puff  of  wind  came,  and  away  she  went,  split  an'  blown 
away.  Well,  we  fought  it  out  but  we  lost  the  captain 
an'  two  men  overboard,  so  we  got  along  without  them. 
We  kept  on  our  voyage  for  two  weeks  longer,  over  a 
month  in  all,  an'  the  old  ship  leaked  so  we  had  to  keep 
men  at  the  pumps.  An'  she  creaked  an'  groaned,  so  no 
one  could  sleep  aboard  until  finally  she  began  to  settle  in 
the  water  an'  then  we  headed  her  for  land  that  just  hove 
in  sight  to  the  west'ard,  which  proved  to  be  some  part 
of  South  America.  Still  the  ship  kept  settlin'  lower. until 
we  found  she  was  goin'  down.  We  made  a  raft  as  well 
as  we  could  of  spars,  and,  with  the  long  boat,  which  we 
loaded  with  water  and  provisions,  we  got  away  jest  in 
time  to  see  her  go  down.  There  wa'n't  nobody  aboard 
of  her,  but  we  heard  some  awful  yells  just  as  the  ship 
went  down  to  see  Davy  Jones.  Then  we  began  to  try  to 
get  ashore.  We  would  row  a  little  by  day  and  seem  to 
be  just  as  far  off  from  land  the  next  morning.  How  hot 
it  was.  Soon  the  provisions  an'  water  failed.  Then  it 
began  to  look  serious.  The  sun  rose  up  out  of  the  ocean 
like  a  great  red  ball  of  fire  as  it  is.  It  grew  smaller  and 
hotter  as  it  came  to  its  noonday,  then  it  grew  larger  and 
larger  again,  until  it  went  under  the  ocean  again,  a  great 
red  ball  of  fire  at  night.  Food  and  water  all  gone.  The 
men  sat  on  the  raft  in  the  hot  sun  an'  glowered  at  each 
other.  Pretty  soon  it  began  to  be  whispered  that  some- 
body had  got  to  die  to  save  the  rest.  Then  they  drew 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  JIM  CAMEL.  81 

lots  and  our  number  was  one  less.  It  seems  kind  o'  bad 
I  know,  but  those  that  have  tasted  man  say  he  is  not  so 
bad  eatin'.  I  didn't  touch  a  dum  mite  of  it.  Tilings 
kept  growin'  wuss  an'  wuss,  until  we  had  but  five  men 
left.  All  went  the  same  way,  an'  they  were  so  weak  they 
could  hardly  walk.  Then  a  breeze  sprang  up  from  the 
cast'aixLan'  the  next  mornin'  there  we  were  right  in  sight 

O  O 

of  hills  an'  woods  an'  palm  trees  an'  rich  vines,  an' 
pretty  soon  we  were  drifted  into  a  beautiful  cove,  where 
we  heard  voices  an'  shouts  of  laughter.  Oh,  such  a  sight 
as  bust  on  us.  They  were  in  a-swimmin,  an'  all  women, 
too.  An'  the  beatermost  thing  was  the  size  of  'em. 
Why !  there  were  women  there  fifteen  foot  high,  an'  lots 
of  'em  twelve.  Well,  there  was  a  few  little  gals,  from 
five  to  eight  feet  high.  They  frolicked  an'  laughed,  an' 
spattered  one  another.  Their  hair  was  long  an'  black  an' 
straight  an'  glossy,  an'  oh,  the  purtiest  hair.  Their  com- 
plexions was  just  a  little  golden  bronze  color,  a  good  deal 
harnsomer  than  white.  Their  teeth  was  white  an'  even 
and  when  they  smiled  it  was  enough  to  set  a  sailor  crazy. 
You  know  that  anything  in  petticoats  is  harnsome  to  a 
sailor,  but  you  have  no  idea  what  a  difference  it  makes 
without  the  petticoats.  An'  their  forms.  Oh,  ah,  I  can't 
describe  'em,  it  wouldn't  be  proper. 

How  they  played  and  sported  on  the  white  sand  that 
looked  like  silver.  But  as  soon  as  they  saw  us  they 
shrieked  like  any  women  and  ran  for  their  togs.  A  great 
big  drum  was  beat,  and  it  wa'i^t  five  minutes  before  they 
came  march  in'  in  real  military  ranks  down  to  the  water. 
The  captin,  who  was  one  of  the  tallest  women,  ordered 
us  to  be  brought  ashore,  when  a  corporal's  guard  at  once 
waded  out  to  us,  for  the  water  wa'n't  over  ten  feet  deep 


82  THE  WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

and  each  one  of  the  five  took  a  man  in  her  arms  and 
brought  us  all  ashore.  We  was  almost  dead  and  they 
knew  it.  We  had  not  seen  a  man  at  all  as  yet.  As  we 
were  so  weak  we  could  not  help  ourselves.  They  had 
their  sweet  wills  with  us.  Their  language  was  a  mixture 
of  Spanish  and  bobolink.  The  captain  asked  a  sharp 
question  of  the  next  officer.  I  could  not  understand  the 
question,  but  I  heard  a  good  square  no  for  an  answer. 
Then  I  saw  the  captain  laugh,  an'  in  a  minute  she  called 
to  a  magnificent  woman  soldier  who  had  a  spear  eight 
feet  long,  an'  a  battle  axe.  The  captain  gave  her  an 
order.  She  laughed  in  a  minute,  and  so  did  the  whole 
company.  She  took  a  big  blanket  ten  feet  square,  like  an 
India  rug,  and  took  me  right  up  in  it.  She  walked  off 
about  a  dozen  steps,  each  six  feet  long,  I'll  bet  ye,  into 
an  open  door  in  the  side  of  the  cliff  near.  She  closed  the 
door  after  her,  for  it  was  pitch  dark.  Dark  as  a  black 
cat.  She  held  me  kind  o'  easy,  an'  in  a  minute  something 
slid  into  my  mouth  as  big  as  the  end  o'  the  pepper  box, 
an'  it  beat  the  world  what  a  rush  of  rich  victuals  I  got. 
Yum,  Yum !  you  see  I  was  hungry,  holler  clear  down  to 
my  heels.  I  must  ha'  got  about  two  quarts  I  guess,  an'  the 
supply  runnin'  a  little  lower,  when  I  was  shifted  ends  off, 
quicker  'n  a  wink  and  then  I  had  it  right  an'  left.  It 
had  a  flavor  of  cocoanut,  and  I  never  had  nothin'  fit  me 
ekal  to  it.  I  just  'tended  to  my  privileges  right  up  to 
the  handle,  whatever  they  were,  when  all  at  once  they 
got  away  from  me  an'  m^  blanket  was  adjusted.  She 
opened  the  door  and  walked  out  with  me  with  her  pretty 
mouth  puckered  up  as  if  she  was  about  to  say  pepper- 
mint. Thcjn  the  captain  looked  me  over,  punched  me  in 
the  stumjack  an'  grinned,  an'  says,  he's  fuller  than  a  tick. 


THE  ADVENTURES   OF  JIM  CAMEL.  83 

Then   the  whole  crowd  laughed  an'  shouted  an'  moiled, 

O  O    OO  ' 

so  that  I  began  to  laugh  myself.  Well,  sir,  that  woman 
just  took  to  me.  She  wanted  to  take  me  in  where  the 
entertainment  was  every  little  while.  If  she  had  kept  on 
she  would  hav.e  had  me  into  the  shape  of  a  bell  pear. 
Very  soon  I  was  on  my  legs  again,  an'  able  to  eat  with 
the  best  of  them  O  them  amazons  were  all  good  to  me, 
an'  always  giving  me  titbits  when  the  others  war'n't 
lookin'  The  other  four  that  were  saved  were  oldish  men, 
old  sea  dogs,  an'  these  amazons  did  not  distress  them- 
selves about  them.  In  about  a  month  I  began  to  pick 
up  their  language  real  fast,  an'  just  then  the  orders  came 
to  leave  the  beautiful  cove.  They  made  a  litter  like  a 
palankeen,  and  it  was  "covered  with  the  gayest  cloth,  an' 
these  women  warriors  just  carried  me  as  easy  as  open  and 
shet.  They  were  about  half  naked,  with  sandals  an' 
fancy-colored  skirts  like  highland  kilts,  an'  short  at  both 
ends.  Every  woman  was  as  nice  an'  perticular  about  her 
toilet,  forty  times  as  nice  as  a  man.  The  trees  were 
often  twelve  an'  fifteen  foot  through,  an'  oh,  such  beauty 
vines,  an'  such  grapes,  an'  fig  trees,  an'  oranges,  an' 
lemons,  an'  mangoes,  an'  mangosteen.  Oh,  such  flowers ! 
They  marched  kind  o'  single  file,  and  often  they  would 
cut  a  flower  three  feet  in  diameter  and  use  it  for  a  sun- 
shade until  it  wilted.  These  flowers  were  all  colors,  an' 
it  made  the  most  gorjus  procession  I  ever  seen.  Away 
off  you  could  see  any  number  of  palm  trees,  an'  often 
beyond  an'  across  water,  this  beautiful  country,  the 
immense  valley,  the  coffee- bearing  foothills,  now  and  then 
a  feathery  waterfall,  and  beyond  it  all,  came  up  against 
the  blue  sky,  the  awful  Andes,  with  a  big  volcano  right 
in  the  middle  among  them.  It  was  the  biggest,  harn- 
somest  sight  I  ever  saw. 


84  THE  WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

The  soldier  that  fed  me  had  just  lost  her  husband,  an' 
that  was  why  she  was  in  the  army.  She  stuck  to  me 
close  and  was  dead  gone  smashed  on  me.  I've  often  had 
'em  that  way.  She  told  me  I  must  go  to  tlfe  Capital  to 
see  the  queen.  She  had  her  pick  of  all  the  men  in  the 
queendom,  for  she  was  going  to  marry  the  smartest  one. 
Now,  ye  see,  that  kind  o'  interested  me.  I  knew  the 
other  four  could  not  take  the  place  of  a  younger  man. 
But  all  this  time  I  had  not  seen  a  man,  an'  I  knew  there 
must  be  some  somewhere,  but  where  ?  We  were  passing 
lots  o'  houses,  only  one  story  high  with  a  door  eighteen  feet 
high,  clear  up  to  the  eaves.  Ye  see,  the  women  needed 
such  doors,  they  were  so  tall.  Well,  I  looked  into  some 
o'  them  houses  and  I'll  be  hanged  if'there  wasn't  the  men, 
smaller  than  I  was,  tendin'  babies  and  wash  in'  dishes. 
It  give  me  quite  a  turn.  Then  I  began  to  laff  an'  I 
laffed  till  I  like  to  a  died.  But  I  got  used  to  it.  The 
idea  of  matin'  a  woman  fifteen  feet  high  to  a  little  runt 
of  a  man  five  feet  high.  It  hurt  my  feelin's.  It  is  like 
matin'  a  drone  bee  half  an  inch  long,  to  a  queen  an  inch 
an'  a  half.  But  it  kills  the  drone  in  a  minute.  Then 
the  build in's  grew  richer  an'  higher,  an'  the  Capital  was 
the  smashinest  city,  ever  so  much  bigger  than  Boston. 
Great  domes  all  covered  with  gold,  an'  fancy-colored 
minarets,  an'  palm  trees  among  'em  all,  an'  bands  o' 
music  with  drums  an'  cymbals  and  reed  instruments,  all 
blown  by  women.  The  fact  is,  the  men  were  at  home 
keepin'  house,  and  the  women  run  the  country.  The 
queen  sent  for  me.  She  said  she  wanted  the  best  man 
for  her  husband,  and,  as  she  had  tried  the  chopping  test 
she  had  found  a  man  that  beat  all  the  others.  Now  if 
I  could  outchop  him  I  should  be  the  happy  man.  Then 


THE   ADVENTUKES   OF  JIM   CAMEL.    '  85 

I  thought  of  the  girl  that  had  been  so  good  to  me  at 
first.  Her  name  was  Rumalia.  I  was  afraid  she  would 
take  it  hard.  The  queen's  name  was  Amazette.  Just' 
twelve  feet  high,  an'  the  handsomest  woman  I  ever  set 
eyes  on,  an'  oh,  how  she  smiled  on  me. 

Wai,  the  trial  came.  I  don't  allow  a  man  to  beat  me 
choppin'.  The  other  feller  was  a  smart  one.  There  were 
a  plenty  of  axes.  He  took  one  that  weighed  about  three 
pounds,  an'  I  took  one  that  weighed  six.  Then  I  made 
'em  bring  a  bucket  of  water,  an'  I  laid  five  more  axes  in 
that.  We  began  on  a  tree  fifteen  feet  in  diameter.  Oh, 
holy  Moses,  how  the  chips  flew,  chips  two  feet  long. 
Soon  as  my  axe  began  to  smoke,  I  knew  I  was  starting 
the  temper  of  it  an'  I  took  another,  an'  laid  this  in  the 
water.  If  it  didn't  sizzle,  I'm  a  liar.  Well,  sir,  you  can 
believe  it  or  not,  I  cut  that  tree  in  a  little  over  an  hour, 
three  quarters  off  before  it  fell  my  way,  an'  won  the 
queen.  As  soon  as  Rumalia  saw  the  tree  fall,  she  tied  a  big 
stone  around  her  neck,  an'  drowned  herself  in  the  lake. 
Excuse  me  (Jim  Camel  brushed  his  hand  over  his  eyes), 
I  ain't  got  over  it  yet. 

Well,  the  queen  sot  the  day  for  our  weddin'  and  I 
lived  in  a  palace  an'  had  the  richest  an'  best  of  every- 
thing. Talk  about  palaces  and  pearls  an'  parrots  an' 
peacocks  an'  palms.  What  do  folks  around  Barrington 
know  about  'em.  Mi^s  Amazette  kept  an  eye  on  me  to 
see  that  I  wasn't  too  sweet  on  any  of  her  officers.  But  I 
hadn't  the  heart  to  do  it,  I  was  thinkin'  of  poor  Rumalia, 
that  cut  me  up  the  worst.  Just  then  an  insurrection 
broke  out  in  a  distant  part  of  the  queen's  dominions.  I 
told  the  queen  if  she  would  postpone  her  wedding  two 
weeks,  and  give  me  an  escort  with  my  four  men  to  the 


86  THE   WILD   AETIST  IN  BOSTON. 

place  where  the  trouble  was,  I  could  make  peace  as  well 
as  chop  big  trees.  So  she  did  it.  We  journeyed  several 
days  with  great  speed,  until  we  came  to  the  country.  I 
made  a  treaty  of  peace  with  them  and  they  agreed  to 
serve  the  queen.  Then  I  found  a  large  steamer  that  ran 
down  a  branch  of  the  Amazon  until  it  came  to  the  main 
river,  and.  took  passage  with  my  four  men  on  board  of 
her.  I  sent  a  messenger  to  the  queen,  telling  her  that  I 
had  pacified  her  subjects,  bidding  her  good-by,  and  tell- 
ing her  not  to  wait  for  me.  In  three  weeks  we  were  in 
Para,  in  five  more  in  New  York,  five  men  of  us,  the 
survivors  of  forty  of  the  crew  of  the  Boston  ship,  Mary 
Jane. 

This  is  Jim  Camel's  story,  more  or  less  faithfully  told. 
I  should  like  to  see  it  dramatized  and  put  worthily  upon 
the  stage.  Joseph  Cook  says,  —  When  we  come  tc,  Bos- 
ton we  expect  a  little  rhetoric.  When  I  go  to  the  theatre 
I  want  a  little  scenery.  I  should  not  end  the  play  of  Jim 
Camel  in  Amazonia,  with  a  stolen  voyage  to  New  York, 
or  Jim's  lowly  grave  on  the  sunset  slope  of  Green  Hill. 
I  would  start  him  off  with  the  embarkation  of  the  captain 
and  crevv,  and  the  ill-omened  disembarkation  of  the  rats. 
Then  the  chimes  of  the  North  church  playing,  view  of  Bos- 
ton slightly  glorified,  Boston  light  and  sunset  over  Boston, 
Minot's  light  and  moonlight  at  sea,  big  storm,  captain  over- 
board, haunted  ship,  pantomime  tricks,  ghosts,  dismasted 
vessel,  sunrise  and  sunset  at  sea,  ship  slowly  sinking,  raft 
and  long  boat,  —  the  sun  a  ball  of  fire,  despair,  and  death, 
the  glorious  country  of  the  Amazons,  bathing  scene  judi- 
ciously managed,  recuperation,  interesting  soldiers, 
flowery  land,  triumphal  journey,  men  doing  housework, 
lady  grenadiers,  mighty  distances,  feathery  palms,  golden 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  JIM  CAMEL.  87 

domes,  tall  minarets,  bright  birds,  leaping  water-falls, 
luxurious  court,  mighty  Andes,  irrepressible  vojcano,  bar- 
baric music,  richest  of  color,  wealthiest  of  palaces,  scenery 
ad.  lib.,  gracious,  condescending  queen,  poor  Rumalia, 
chopping  match,  victory,  Amazette  won,  grandeur  and 
gorgeousness,  queen's  entertainment,  woman's  kingdom 
come,  woman  triumphant,  men  find  their  true  vocation 
and  stay  there,  high  old  revel,  triumphant  suppression 
of  revolt,  queen's  gratitude  to  Jim  Camel,  saved  the 
queendoni,  glorious  wedding,  honeymoon  never  ends, 
Jim  grows  old  gracefully,  golden  wedding,  palace  full  of 
Amazons,  his  own  daughters  of  course,  splendid  manly 
women,  also  sons,  sweet,  affectionate,  womanly  men.  Too 
sweet  for  anything.  Oh,  have  the  whole  thing  go  off 
like  anniversary  week  in  Boston.  Little  need  of  matter 
of  fact,  but  the  widest  latitude  for  the  gorgeousness  of 
his  own  lush  imagination. 

Roy  ceased  reading.  Jean  McDuffie  sat  close  before 
him  with  a  ripe  smile  all  over  his  face. 

Said  Roy.  "  What  do  you  think  of  Jim  Camel, 
Jean  ?  " 

"  Think?  why  I  think  it  is  splendid  to  the  last  degree, 
but  it  is  a  little  of  Jim  Camel  and  a  great  deal  of  some- 
body else." 

This  reply  brought  down  the  house,  for  it  was  just  what 
they  all  thought.  With  many  a  kind  word  and  especially 
from  Jean  McDuffie,  the  company  went  home.  As  the 
last  team  drove  away  from  the  house,  Roy  tarried  at  the 
gate,  and  looked  a  moment  at  the  house  glorified  in  the 
moonlight.  His  heart  was  full  as  he  asked  himself, 
"  What  kind  of  a  man  ought  I  to  be,  with  such  apprecia- 
tive friends,  with  such  a  welcome  home,  and  with  such  a 


88  THE  WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

father  and  mother !  "  It  takes  a  lifetime  to  answer  such 
questions,  and  Roy  went  slowly  into  the  house  to  rest, 
but  what  was  most  unusual  for  him,  his  last  hours  at 
home  were  pulling  upon  his  heart  so  much  as  to  make  a 
pain  that  almost  banished  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

SORROW    TURNED    TO    JOY. 

THE  weather  was  fair  and  pleasant  the  day  that  Roy 
went  to  Boston.  But  it  was  rather  a  blue  day  at  the 
farm.  Hereafter  the  home  life  was  to  be  like  the  play  of 
Hamlet,  with  the  young  prince  left  out.  With  renewed 
assurances  of  countless  letters  and  often  visits,  Roy  shook 
hands  with  his  father  and  kissed  his  mother,  and  Sam 
drove  with  him  to  the  station. 

He  landed  at  the  Quincy  House  in  Boston,  fully  re- 
solved to  take  it  easy,  to  be  well  employed,  to  make  the 
most  of  it  and  not  to  fret.  Sam  came  back  to  the  farm 
as  solemn  as  an  owl.  Mr.  Bartlett  did  not  talk  much  and 
seemed  to  be  musing  and  thinking  considerably.  Roy's 
mother  had  her  mouth  firmly  drawn  up,  as  if  she  •  had  a 
large  amount  of  suppressed  feeling,  which,  by  great 
effort,  she  was  fully  determined  to  control  if  it  killed  her. 
Long  and  dreary  was  the  afternoon,  and  milking  time  was 
more  of  a  burden,  because  Roy  was  gone.  Supper  too. 
There  was  enough  and  that  which  was  good  enough,  but 
somehow  the  questions  were  few  and  the  answers  were 
short  and  not  interesting.  Noise  was  out  of  place.  It 
seemed  as  if  Sunday  had  got  loose  again. 

After  supper  Mr.  Bartlett  looked  at  the  Dover  En- 
quirer, and  Sam  looked  into  the  fire  which  shed  a  pleas- 
ant glow  from  the  open  fireplace.  Aunt  Bartlett  cleared 
away  tire  tea-things.  When  the  work  was  done,  she  sat 

89 


90  THE  WILD   AKTIST  IN   BOSTON. 

<!own  on  the  wide  sofa,  and  the  full  weight  of  her  desola- 
tion came  over  her  so  strongly  that  she  burst  into  tears. 
ii.ie  wept  hard  for  a  few  minutes,  with  her  face  buried  in 
the  great  sofa  pillow.  Then,  when  her  grief  had  found  a 
little  vent,  Mr.  Bartlett  arose  and  took  down  a  large 
roller  towel,  laying  it  across  his  easy  chair.  Mi's.  Bart- 
lett looked  with  one  eye  uncovered  to  see  what  he  was 
doim'.  Sam  was  interested  too.  Then  Mr.  Bartlett 

O 

went  into  the  kitchen  and  brought  down  the  big  dish-pan 
that  dishes  were  washed  in,  and  set  it  down  on  the  floor 
before  his  chair.  Mrs.  Bartlett  now  watched  him  with 
both  eyes.  She  forgot  to  weep.  Sam  wondered.  Had 
Mr.  Bartlett  lost  his  mind  ?  Then  he  went  into  the 
kitchen  again,  was  gone  a  moment,  pumped  a  little  water 
and  came  in,  and  after  seeing  the  doors  all  shut  sat 
down  with  the  roller  towel  on  his  knees,  and  the  big 
dish-pan  between  his  feet.  His  two  spectators  looked  on 
in  wonder  and  astonishment.  Then,  with  a  funny  old 
snort  he  made  believe  burst  into  tears.  "Ah,  Boo,  Hoo, 
Hoo.  He  is  gone,  mi  bi  es  gone.  Oh,  Boo,  Hoo,  Hoo. 
Roy  has  gone  to  Boston  and  we'll  never  see  him  again,  at 
all,  at  all.  Ah  wurra,  wurra.  Ah,  Boo,  Hoo,  IIoo."  And 
he  squeezed  a  large  sponge  which  he  held  concealed  in 
his  hand,  into  the  big  dish-pan.  Mrs.  Bartlett  and  Sam 
screamed  with  laughter.  Mr.  Bartlett  wiped  his  eyes  on 
the  roller  towel  and  cried  again  like  a  big  bull  calf.  "Ah, 
Boo,  Hoo,  Hoo.  He's  gone  to  Boston  among  cannibals. 
He'll  be  bottled  up  for  cologne  water.  He'll  be  hung  an 
drowned  an'  robbed  an'  murdered  an'  sold  for  a  slave. 
Ah,  Boo,  Hoo,  Hoo,  Hoo."  Sam  roared.  Mrs.  Bartlett 
laughed  \mtil  the  tears  came.  Not  the  briny.  Then  she 
got  up,  kicked  the  dish-pan  away,  threw  the  big  towel 


SORROW   TURNED  TO  JOY.  91 

after  it,  and  the  sponge  after  that,  and  in  spite  of  his  pre- 
tended resistance,  she  put  her  arm  around  her  husband's 
neck,  sat  down  in  his  lap  and  kissed  him,  saying :  "  At 
any  rate  I  have  got  you  left,  you  old  coon,  and  I  am 
going  to  keep  you."  It  was  nuts  for  Sam,  and  as  good  as 
a  play. 

"  Now,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett,  "  let  us  settle  this  thing 
right  here.  I  gave  my  consent  for  Roy  to  go.  He  is  a 
safe,  manly  young  man.  Do  you  wish  him  tied  to  a 
woman's  apron  string  all  his  life  ?  I  travelled  far  and 
wide  before  I  was  of  his  age.  He  will  do  well.  Now,  if 
you  will  promise  not  to  be  sorry  or  grieve  any  more  until 
you  have  cause  to  grieve,  then  we  will  be  pleasant  and 
happy  just  as  he  wishes  us  to  be.  But  if  you  propose  to 
shed  any  more  tears  I  will  have  the  big  dish-pan  again." 

There  were  no  more  tears  shed  and  the  remainder  of 
the  evening  was  pleasant,  as  were  the  evenings  after  it. 

"  But,"  said  he,  "  it  is  best  that  we  make  a  rule  to  have 
company  one  or  two  nights  in  a  week.  Then  we  will  go 
out  some,  we  will  read  aloud  some,  play  checkers  or 
something  a  little,  if  we  wish  to,  and  in  general  act  as  if 
it  was  our  duty  and  pleasure  to  keep  sweet  and  thankful 
just  as  much  as  it  is  to  Be  fed  and  clothed,  and  especially 
as  we  have  so  much  to  be  thankful  for.  We  must  make 
life  a  joy  and  a  thing  of  beauty,  and  we  must  keep  Sam 
as  sweet  as  the  heart  of  a  June  rose. 

Sam  showed  his  white  ivories  and  laughed  with  both 
mouth  and  eyes. 

I  do  like  to  see  old  married  people  act  as  though  mar- 
riage was  the  birth,  instead  of  the  death,  of  love.  Guy 
Bartlett  often  pretended  to  court  his  wife  over  again, 
and  he  called  her,  Miss  Royal,  her  maiden  name.  Some- 


92  THE  WILD   ARTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

times  she  would  play  off  for  awhile,  and  give  him  no  en- 
couragement. Then  it  took  more  persuasion  to  bring  her 
to  terms.  This  time  after  the  dish-pan  was  put  away,  Sam 
was  looking  to  see  what  was  coming  next.  Mr.  Bartlett, 
said,  "  And  now,  Miss  Royal,  if  you  remember,  I  was  in 
Cambridgeport  some  time  ago  and  attended  a  silver  wed- 
ding there.  I  was  invited  to  entertain  the  company,  and 
I  did  so  by  reading  this  poem  to  them.  Shall  I  read  it 
to  you  and  Sam  ?"  It  was  so  ordered  and  read, — 

"THE  SILVER  WEDDING. 

"  Dear  beloved :  when  we  find 
A  pair  to  wedded  life  inclined, 
'Tis  right  that  they,  of  their  own  wills, 
Should  treat  their  friends,  and  pay  their  bills. 
Now  this  young  man,  I'm  glad  to  tell 
Has  known  this  maiden  quite  a  spell ; 
Has  boarded  with  her,  and  I'll  mention 
Has  paid  her  very  marked  attention. 

"  And  more  than  that,  1tis  even  said 
They  thought  at  one  time  they  were  wed ; 
But  lately,  come  to  think  about  it, 
We  find  them  some  inclined  to  doubt  it. 
The  thing  is  now  so  long  forgot, 
They  know  not  if  it  is,  or  not ; 
And  so,  for  fear  such  fact  should  grieve  them, 
We'll  have  them  hitched  before  we  leave  them. 

"  Young  man,  I  charge  you  solemnly, 
If  you  know  why  this  should  not  be, 
Keep  your  mouth  shut,  and  hold  your  yop ; 
This  wedding  is  not  going  to  stop. 
Hold  up  your  head  and  make  no  noise ; 
Set  an  example  to  your  boys. 


SORROW  TURNED  TO  JOY.  93 

"Beloved  young  lady,  can  you  stand 
To  wed  this  innocent  young  man  — 
Take  him  with  houses,  lands,  and  purse 
For  better  or  perhaps  for  worse  ? 
Change  both  your  single  lives  to  double, 
And  bring  him  one  end  of  his  trouble  ? 
Then  his  you  shall  be  all  your  life, 
You  I  pronounce  husband  and  wife. 

Oh,  happy  couple,  all  goes  well, 

As  merry  as  a  married  spell ; 
Your  home  is  warm ;  your  chamber  light ; 
You  need  no  warming  pan  to-night. 
There's  silver  music  in  the  air ; 
'Tis  silver,  silver  everywhere ; 
For  hearts  are  warm,  and  home  is  bright, 
And  silver  wishes  come  to-night. 
The  clouds  that  float  along  the  blue, 
Shall  show  their  silver  sides  to  you ; 
Posterity  shall  bring  its  joys, 
I  promise  you  two  glorious  boys ; 
Also  two  girls,  sometime  you'll  mind  them  — 
Don't  hurry,  for  the  boys  will  find  them. 
Then  pleasant  years  of  life  and  care 
Shall  streak  their  silver  in  your  hair. 
The  moon  that  glorifies  the  night, 
Shall  shed  for  you  her  silver  light ; 
When  trouble  comes,  you  each  can  share  it ; 
You  only  have  to  grin  and  bear  it ; 
While  friends,  on  this  your  wedding-day, 
Bring  silver  gifts  to  light  the  way. 
Now  may  this  pleasant  day  in  June 
Presage  life's  golden  afternoon. 
Long  may  you  live,  and  prosper,  too, 
With  loving  hearts  and  friends  all  true. 
And  so  may  Heaven's  best  blessings  fall, 
So  says  each  one.     So  say  we  all." 

This  seemed  to  please  Mrs.  Bartlett,  for  she  immedi- 
ately captured  the  manuscript,  so  that  it  should  be  put 


94  THE  WILD   ARTIST   IK  BOSTON. 

with  the  large  pile  of  others  that  Mr.  Bartlett  had  written 
for  various  occasions  or  publication.  Grimalkin  was 
stretched  comfortably  in  Mrs.  Bartlett's  lap,  and  Canis 
Major  lay  on  a  rug  on  the  floor  in  the  firelight.  It  was  a 
beauty  picture,  and  Roy  would  have  said  so. 

"Now,  Sam,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett,  " it  is  your  turn  to 
edify  the  company." 

"  You  know  that  I  have  often  investigated  the  attic  in 
search  of  something  to  read ;  for  there  are  few  farm- 
houses as  well  supplied  as  this,  in  reading  matter,  —  take 
the  books  in  the  secretary  and  great  book-case,  all  the 
newspapers  and  magazines  in  the  attic,  —  and  among  it  all, 
I  have  had  a  good  chance  to  read  back  numbers  of  the 
Morning  Star,  Dover  inquirer,  New  Hampshire  States- 
man, Manchester  Mirror,  lloston  Cultivator,  Belknap 
Gazette,  and  I  do  not  know  how  many  more,  besides  old 
books  and  papers  away  back  for  a  hundred  years.  Now 
a  story  conies  to  my  mind  that  I  liked  very  much.  I 
cannot  tell  where  I  got  it.  It  is  so  old  and  so  character- 
istic of  the  Boston  Yankee,  that  I  remember  it  very 
pleasantly. 

Story  of  the  Boy  that  was  Born  in  Boston. 

Many  years  ago,  when  Salem  was  a  power  in  the  land, 
and  the  Bertrams  did  a  large  trade  with  Madagascar,  and 
brought  Mocha  coffee,  and  Java  pepper,  and  spices,  and 
India  and  China  goods,  to  Salem ;  then  Boston  boys  went 
to  Salem,  sometimes  to  go  to  sea  in  Bertram's  ships. 
Often  it  was  a  long  time  before  they  were  heard  from, 
even  supposing  they  ever  were  heard  from. 

So  after  the  war  of  1812,  when  United  States  consuls 
came  to  be  settled  in  Asiatic  ports,  away  up  the  Mediter- 


SORROW   TURNED  TO  JOY.  95 

ranean,  under  some  of  the  Democratic  Presidents,  these 
consuls  had  some  odd  experiences.  One  thing  they  often 
did,  was  to  assist  distressed  Americans  to  get  home. 

One  day  when  a  consul  was  taking  his  after-dinner  nap, 
lie  heard  a  knock  and  rattle  at  his  gate.  The  man  spoke 
to  him  in  bad  English,  and  said  he  wanted  to  see  the  con- 
sul. I  am  the  consul.  Said  the  man,  I  am  an  American. 
Oh,  go  away,  you  are  no  American !  I  am,  sir,  I  was 
born  in  Boston.  The  consul  opened  the  gate  and  let  him. 
in,  but  expected  to  prove  easily  that  he  was  from  any- 
where but  Boston.  Yes,  said  the  man,  I  was  born  in 
Boston,  and  the  last  I  knew  of  her,  my  mother  lived 
there.  That  was  most  thirty  years  ago.  The  consul 
looked  him  over.  A  little  short-legged  chap,  dirty  and 
sick  looking.  He  would  have  looked  pale  if  he  could. 
Where  did  you  sail  from  ?  Salem  ;  in  one  of  Bertram's 
ships,  he  answered.  I  have  lived  at  cape  of  Good 
Hope,  Mauritius,  an.d  Tamatave.  I  have  been  to  Antan- 
anarivo, and  seen  the  Queen  of  Madagascar.  I  have  been 
in  Zanzibar,  Mocha,  Mecca,  Medina,  and  Muscat.  Of 
course  I  speak  Arabic,  like  an  Arab,  else  I  could  not  have 
come  out  of  Arabia  alive.  I  have  been  in  India  and 
China.  I  could  not  get  into  Japan,  but  I  have  been  in 
and  around  Africa  and  Asia  all  the  time,  and  never  been 
home.  Now  I  want  to  see  Boston  once  more,  although 
there  ain't  a  soul  alive  that  would  know  me.  It  began  to 
look  as  if  the  man  had  told  the  truth.  The  consul 
thought  he  would  try  him.  What  streets  do  you  remem- 
ber in  Boston?  Washington  Street,  Hanover  Street, 
and  Ann  Street.  Yes,  and  what  public  buildings? 
The  State  House.  Yes,  any  public  hall?  He  thought 
hard,  but  in  a  moment  said,  Faneuil  Hall,  I  remember 


96  THE  WILD   ARTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

that,  plain.  Can  you  remember  what  the  weathervane 
•was,  on  Faneuil  Hall  ? '  He  looked  down  and  seemed  to 
be  thinking  just  as  tight  as  he  could.  He  fairly  put  out  all 
his  strength  to  remember.  Then  all  at  once  he  shouted, 
Grasshopper,  by  thunder,  I  have  not  thought  of  it  for 
years  and  years.  He  was  sent  back  to  Boston,  and  bet- 
ter still,  he  found  his  old  mother  alive'  to  welcome  him. 

"  That  is  just  such  a  story  as  I  like,"  said  Mrs.  Bartlett. 
"  That  is,  I  do  not  like  to  have  a  boy  go  away  in  silence, 
for  half  a  lifetime  ;  that  is  cruel  and  mean  to  his  mother ; 
but  I  am  glad  he  got  sent  home  in  the  way  he  did." 

"  Yes,"  said  Sam,  "  and  every  Boston  boy  ought  to  re- 
member that  the  State  House  is  crowned  by  a  pineapple, 
and  Faneuil  Hall  by  a  grasshopper." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

ROY  AT  THE  QUINCY  HOUSE. 

I  DO  not  believe  there  is  a  city  in  the  world  that  con- 
tains within  a  radius  of  half  a  mile  in  each  direction, 
reckoning  from  Park  Street  Church  as  a  centre,  more 
education,  literature,  art,  beauty,  music  and  song,  or 
more  to  amuse,  entertain,  and  enjoy,  than  Boston.  Not 
in  the  same  space,  and  very  few  in  their  whole  space. 
Many  theatres  of  the  best,  the  noblest  churches,  the 
strongest  missionary  societies,  State  House,  City  Hall, 
Athenaeum,  Public  Library,  and  many  lesser  libraries,  cir- 
culating libraries  and  bookstores ;  the  best  of  them  all, 
hook  and  art  auctions,  studios,  and  art-galleries,  mission- 
ary, historical,  geological,  and  anatomical  museums :  and 
every  specialty  that  the  wonder-SQeking  brain  can  call  for, 
is  almost  sure  to  find  its  representative,  from  the  plainest 
cooking  to  the  most  elaborate  designing  that  can  be 
wanted. 

But  first,  Roy  found  what  colors  and  brushes  he 
needed,  and  with  little  delay  he  was  at  work  on  his  first 
picture,  in  oil  color.  He  did  not  hurry,  but  took  the  day 
to  cover  his  first  canvas.  He  did  not  feel  elated  over  it : 
he  felt  small.  He  had  a  great  respect  for  a  palette  of 
color.  Others  said  not  so  bad.  Had  seen  worse.  A  lie 
needs  some  foundation.  Roy's  picture  had  no  foundation 
for  praise  of  any  kind.  He  leaned  it  face  to  the  wall  to 
dry,  and  walked  out.  He  banished  art  from  his  mind, 

97 


98  THE   WILD   AKTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

with  exercise.  He  made  up  his  mind  to  improve  that 
picture  to-morrow,  and  he  did  it.  When  not  painting, 
he  planned  what  to  paint.  It  is  a  New  Hampshire  prov- 
erb that  when  a  job  is  well  planned  and  begun,  it  is  half 
done.  When  Roy  went  to  work,  he  knew  what  he 
intended  to  do,  and  what  to  do  while  the  first  painting 
was  drying,  until  he  wanted  to  take  it  up  again.  He  did 
not  drizzle  away  his  time,  and  he  did  not  content  himself 
with  having  one  little  canvas  only,  and  then  wait  for 
days,  for  a  slow  color  to  dry.  He  had  a  stock  of  a  few 
canvases  and  panels,  and  in  three  or  four  days,  one  land- 
scape picture  of  river,  bridge,  trees,  and  mountains, 
twelve  by  eighteen,  was  done.  It  cut  him  a  little  to  sell 
pictures  that  he  did  not  admire,  but  he  was  bound  to  do 
it.  He  wanted  them  out  of  his  sight.  He  did  not  tell 
who  painted  them,  they  were  by  pupils ;  and  without 
much  difficulty,  he  took  three  dollars  for  the  first  one. 
The  second  was  better,  and  a  dealer  asked  him  to  bring 
in  some  occasionally.  He  began  to  visit  studios,  and  to 
get  a  little  acquainted  with  the  artists  ;  to  hear  art  meth- 
ods, and  art  criticisms.  He  read  books  of  standard  value. 
One  day  he  was  in  the  Studio  Building  at  an  artist's  exhi- 
bition, with  a  friend.  There  were  a  few  persons  present. 
His  friend  asked,  "  Where  are  you  staying,  Mr.  Bartlett?" 

"I  am  at  the  Quincy  House  yet,  but  I  want  to  find  a 
quiet  family  with  few  or  no  other  boarders,  that  will  be 
as  much  like  my  own  home  as  possible.  I  should  like 
two  meals  there  and  I  should  be  gone  at  noon.  I  do  not 
want  it  with  common  miscellaneous  people,  I  had  rather 
wait  longer." 

A  gentleman  turned  and  looked  a  moment  at  Roy. 

The  artist  said  he  did  not  know  of  such  a  chance,  but 


ROY  AT   THE   QtTTNCY  HOUSE.  99 

thought  there  were  plenty  who  would  be  glad  of  him  for 
company.  That  evening,  at  the  Quincy  House  a  messen- 
ger brought  him  a  letter,  thus, — 

"  MR.  ROY  BARTLETT,  —  I  hear  that  you  wish  a  room  in  a 

suitable,   quiet  family.     If  you  will  call  on  me   at  No 

street,  perhaps  I  can  put  you  in  the  way  of  getting  it. 

"Truly  yours, 

"  MRS.  PARNA  WARREN." 

The  next  morning  he  called  on  the  artist  to  thank  him 
for  so  soon  finding  a  chance  for  him,  but  to  his  surprise 
the  artist  knew  nothing  about  it.  Then  who  did  send  the 
letter  or  cause  it  to  be  sent.  The  letter  looked  honest. 
Perhaps  the  writer  would  inform  him.  So  he  would  call 
and  investigate.  He  did  so.  It  was  a  good  four-story 
house,  not  new,  high  up  on  Beacon  hill,  and  not  far  from 
the  State  House.  It  was  situated  so  as  to  give  a  good 
outlook  down  a  street,  and  the  chambers  looked  over  a 
large  extent  of  the  cities  and  country  around  Boston. 
He  was  ushered  into  the  parlor.  It  was  a  very  large  one. 
But  in  a  moment  more,  a  girl-servant  opened  a  wide  fold- 
ing door,  and  showed  the  back  parlor,  sunshiny  and 
pleasant,  and  a  lady  sewing  on  some  brilliant  silks.  She 
was  perhaps  fifty  years  old,  slightly  gray  hair  in  curls, 
but  with  a  clear  fair  complexion,  red  cheeks,  and  genuine 
air  of  the  most  undoubted  dignity  and  respectability. 

Roy  at  once  knew  her  to  be  a  real  lady.  He  said,  "  I 
am  Mr.  Bartlett,  I  received  a  note  from  Mrs.  Parna 
Warren." 

"Yes,  sir.  That  is  my  name.  Take  a  seat,  sir.  I  sent 
the  note.  A  gentleman  whom  you  do  not  know,  and 
who  does  not  know  you,  having  seen  you  but  once,  said 


100  THE   WILD  ARTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

he  accidentally  heard  you  say,  that  you  wished  to  get  a 
room  in  a  quiet  family,  like  your  own  home." 

"  I  do,"  said  Roy. 

"This  gentleman  was  impressed  with  the  candor  of 
your  remarks,  and  with  your  looks,  and  told  me  of  it.  So 
as  he  does  not  know  you,  to  recommend  you,  if  you  will 
answer  my  questions,  perhaps  I  can  be  of  service.  What 
is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Royal  Bartlett." 

"  Where  have  you  lived  ?  " 

"  At  home  in  Strafford  County  in  southern  New  Hamp- 
shire, near  Dover." 

"How  old?" 

"  Twenty-one." 

"  Well  situated  ?  and  did  you  leave  at  peace  when  you 
came  away?" 

"  I  did  ;  in  peace  and  love  with  the  best  father  and 
mother  that  ever  a  boy  had.  I  am  their  only  child. 
They  are  good  farmers  and  I  was  very  pleasantly  situated. 
But  I  wanted  to  study  art  awhile,  and  see  if  it  was  best 
to  continue  in  it.  It  was  hard  leaving  home,  but  I  am 
not  far  away  and  shall  see  them  often." 

"Are  you  a  temperance  man?" 

"I  think  you  will  never  object  to  my  habits  in  that 
respect ;  undoubtedly  alcohol  has  its  uses  as  medicine,  yet 
a  young  man  as  healthy  as  I  am — never  sick  a  day  — 
has  little  need  of  medicine." 

"  How  about  tobacco  ?  " 

"  I  never  use  it.  I  think  a  man  is  better,  cleaner, 
handsomer  and  sweeter,  every  way,  without  it  than  with 
it.  Of  course  many  nice  people  use  it,  but  they  would 
be  nicer  if  they  did  not." 


BOY  AT  THE  QUINCY  HOUSE.  101 

"  Mr.  Bartlett,  I  have  two  daughters.  One  is  a  teacher 
in  a  public  school,  and  the  other  teaches  music.  Would 
breakfast  and  supper  hours  such  as  would  be  suitable  to 
them,  be  convenient  to  you  ?  " 

"Just  the  thing." 

"  Now,  Mr.  Bartlett ;  I  and  my  daughters  were  all 
born  in  Boston.  My  husband  died  when  they  were 
young.  We  are  comfortably  situated,  with  an  assured 
income,  that  suffices  for  us.  This  house  is  mine.  My 
daughters  need  not  work,  but  they  prefer  to  earn  some- 
thing for  themselves.  If  we  are  all  pleased  after  trial,  as 
we  have  no  man  in  the  house,  we  should  like  to  have  you 
with  us  for  company.  The  price  will  be  low,  as  we  do 
not  need  to  do  it  for  money  alone."  She  named  the 
price.  It  was  satisfactory. 

"  Now,  one  thing  more.  My  girls  like  the  society  of 
suitable  men,  as  well  as  women.  But  they  do  not  wish 
gallantry,  and  they  will  not  flirt." 

Said  Roy.  "  I  am  heartily  glad  of  it.  For  I  will  not 
flirt  myself,  neither  will  I  give  any  woman  cause  to  hate 
me.  I  like  ladies'  society,  when  it  is  true  and  sensible." 

"  Now,  Mr.  Bartlett,  let  us  see  if  the  room  will  suit  you." 

It  was  in  the  fourth  story,  large,  light,  well-heated,  and 
with  a  splendid  view.  Nothing  could  be  better. 

"  One  thing  more.  My  older  daughter  is  Miss  Emily 
and  my  younger  is  Miss  Sarah  Warren.  Perhaps  you 
had  better  call  them  Miss  Emily  and  Miss  Sarah,  and  to 
them  you  will  be  Mr.  Bartlett.  You  can  come  as  soon 
as  you  please." 

Said  Roy.  "  I  think  it  will  be  this  afternoon,  and,  Mrs. 
Warren,  please  to  speak  of  anything  I  can  do  to  serve 
you." 


102  THE  WILD  ARTIST  IN   BOSTON. 

Roy's  call  was  a  beauty.  Although  he  bad  much  that 
he  liked  at  the  homelike  Quincy  House,  and  was  con- 
stantly meeting  New  Hampshire  people  there,  which 
made  it  social  for  him,  yet  that  afternoon  saw  him  and 
his  trunks  domiciled  at  the  Warren  homestead,  on 
Beacon  hill. 

Roy  was  well  dressed,  looking  well,  and  feeling  well. 
At  six  o'clock  the  supper  bell  rang.  Reader,  you  can  call 
it  dinner  if  you  like.  This  is  a  free  country.  I  believe 
Adam  and  Eve  took  dinner  at  noon,  and  Roy's  ancestors 
did ;  furthermore,  I  do  not  believe  there  is  a  valid  reason 
for  changing  it  now.  He  descended  to  the  parlor  and 
was  presented  to  the  Misses  Warren.  They  were  fine 
specimens  of  Boston  girls.  That  is  the  superlative,  for 
this  planet.  Then  Mrs.  Warren  led  the  way  to  the  dining- 
room,  and  took  her  place  at  the  ladies'  head  of  the  table. 

"  Now,"  said  she,  "  I  have  a  problem.  Here  is  a  table, 
and  four  persons  to  sit  around  it.  Please  tell  me,  Mr. 
Bartlett,  shall  I  let  Miss  Ernily  sit  opposite  to  me  and 
help  us  ?  or  would  you  like  to  ?  " 

Said  Roy,  "  Mrs.  Warren,  put  me  right  where  you  and 
the  ladies  want  me ;  where  I  can  do  the  most  service." 

"  Do  you  mean  it  ?  " 

"Indeed,  I  do." 

"  Then,  please,  take  the  master's  place,  opposite  me ; 
and  my  daughters  will  sit  each  side."  He  did. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Miss  Emily. 

"  I  am  heartily  glad  of  it,"  said  Miss  Sarah. 

That  dinner — er  —  supper,  I  mean — was  a  success. 
Enough,  and  the  best  of  everything.  Roy  fitted  into  his 
new  place  at  the  man's  head  of  the  table,  as  if  it  was 
always  so.  After  supper  a  little  time  passed  in  getting 


KOY  AT   THE   QUINCY   HOUSE.  103 

acquainted  with  the  Warrens,  in  the  parlors.  Each  was 
glad  to  find  that  they  all  enjoyed  pictures  and  books. 
*Then  came  suggestions  of  reading  certain  authors,  and 
good  times  together,  and  Roy  ascended  to  his  sanctum. 

A  little  later  he  stretched  himself  in  his  little  bed,  and 
found  ample  length  and  width  for  five  feet  eleven,  and 
his  mind  ran  over  what  he  had  accomplished,  all  in  one 
day.  Then  with  heart  and  voice  he  answered,  "  Thank 
God  for  it  all."  Then,  in  an  instant,  his  thought 
jumped  seventy  miles,  to  his  home  in  New  Hampshire, 
and  he  added,  "And  God  bless  father,  and  God  bless 
mother,  and  God  bless  Sam,  and  all  the  horses,  and  cattle, 
and  pigs,  and  hens,  and  Canis  Major,  and  Grimalkin,  and 
the  pelican."  "Why !  the  whole  thing  had  been  done  as 
easy  as  rolling  off  a  log. 

And  I  might  say  of  Roy,  as  the  doctor  was  at  last 
obliged  to,  in  Bayard  Taylor's  glorious  novel,  "  The  Story 
of  Kennet,"  when  the  doctor's  daughter  would  not  marry 
Alf  Barton,  and  would  marry  Gilbert  Potter,  "  Thee  was 
led.  Thee  was  led." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

LIFE    WITH    SOME    FLAVOR   IN    IT. 

DURING  the  rebellion,  when  all  the  men  were  gone  to 
the  war,  in  some  families,  life  was  stale,  flat,  and  flavorless. 
In  one  family,  of  a  mother  and  three  daughters,  it  was 
very  monotonous.  One  day  the  youngest  girl  was  missed. 
They  hunted  for  her.  Her  mother  found  her  in  a  sum- 
mer house,  in  the  garden,  getting  a  little  flavor  out  of  a 
stub  of  a  cigar. 

"Why!  my  daughter,  what  does  this  mean?" 

"Oh,  I  am  only  trying  to  make  it  smell  as  though  there 
was  a  man  somewhere  round." 

Before  Roy  came  it  must  have  been  quiet  at  Mrs.  War- 
ren's. Three  men  living  together  are  a  menagerie. 
There  is  a  Spanish  proverb,  that  a  kiss  without  a  mous- 
tache, is  like  a  spring  chicken  without  salt.  Women 
only,  living  together,  are  a  great  loss  of  negative  elec- 
tricity, without  the  positive  to  make  it  enjoyable. 

The  quartette  met  at  the  breakfast  table.  Mrs.  War- 
ren was  pleasant,  motherly,  and  a  queen  of  housekeepers. 
The  daughters  were  pleasant  and  helpful,  while  Roy 
seemed  to  fit  into  the  vacant  chair  like  the  benediction 
after  a  long  sermon.  He  helped  quietly,  quickly,  and 
easily. 

After  partaking  of  something,  and  time  to  pause  and 
consider  had  come,  Roy  said,  "  There  are  several  ways  of 
doing  things,  especially  eating,  —  in  a  hurry,  or  at  reason- 

104 


LIFE  WITH  SOME  FLAVOR  IN  IT.  105 

able  leisure ;  in  silence,  or,  after  hunger  ia  appeased,  now 
and  then  some  pleasant  words.  Which  is  the  wisest 
way?" 

Said  Mrs.  Warren,  "There  is  a  proverb,  'Let  your 
victuals  stop  your  mouth ; '  but  I  do  not  think  it  is  a 
good  one.  I  like  a  good  meal  well  attended  to,  and  it  is 
often  much  improved  by  the  pleasant  things  spoken  of. 
To  eat  and  not  to  speak  is  prison-like  and  barbarous." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Roy,  "  with  the  increase  of  printing, 
the  art  of  conversation  has  somewhat  declined.  But 
perhaps  not." 

Miss  Emily  thought  there  was  more  discussion,  on  all 
subjects,  especially  in  Boston,  than  ever  before.  Even 
women  had  taken  the  platform  in  great  numbers.  Miss 
Sarah  had  seen  it,  had  heard  it,  and  had  not  been  espe- 
cially pleased  with  it.  None  of  the  ladies  had. 

Said  Roy,  "  There  is  a  lady  lecturer  who,  on  one  occa- 
sion, criticised  the  men  severely.  Some  one  asked  her, 
'  Do  you  hate  a  man  ? '  '  That  depends  entirely  upon  the 
man,'  said  she.  It  is  one  reason  why  I  am  here,  that  I 
do  not  wish  too  much  society  of  men.  I  get  enough  of 
it  in  my  business.  It  is  another  reason  why  I  am  here, 
that  you  are  willing  to  admit  a  suitable  man  here.  But 
it  depends  entirely  upon  the  man.  If  a  man  goes  to  a 
new  home  and  gets  all  of  light,  comfort,  and  pleasure 
that  he  can,  and  gives  as  little  as  he  can  for  it  to  those  he 
is  with,  his  selfishness  and  baseness  will  soon  be  apparent, 
and  spoil  his  welcome.  On  the  other  hand,  if  he  is 
helping,  loving,  and  giving,  and  is  willing  to  sacrifice  a 
little  for  others,  he  will  be  an  acquisition.  Therefore,  if 
you  ladies  need  a  brother's  help,  please  call  on  me,  and 
see  if  I  do  not  give  it.  I  have  always  worked  on  the 


106  THE   WILD   ARTIST  IN   BOSTON. 

farm,  —  I  like  it,  —  and  I  am  strong,  and  able  to  do  it. 
I  may  have  to  ask,  as  a  privilege,  some  real  work  to  do. 
If  a  piece  of  furniture  needs  moving,  or  a  nail  to  be 
driven,  a  picture  hung,  or  any  trouble  comes,  by  day  or 
night,  when  you  need  a  man's  help,  you  are  welcome  to 
call  on  me.  If  your  help  all  leave  you,  and  you  all  get 
sick  at  once,  then,  perhaps,  I  can  show  you  whether  my 
mother  taught  me  to  keep  house  or  not.  I  have 
studied  medicine  and  surgery  enough  to  be  of  good  use 
to  myself  and  others.  A  New  Hampshire  Yankee  wants 
to  learn  all  he  can  of  useful  things,  for  he  never  can  tell 
what  he  will  have  to  do  before  he  dies." 

The  ladies  laughed  at  the  quaint  wisdom,  and  said  that 
such  habits  ought  to  bring  success  through  life. 

"  Mr.  Bartlett,"  said  Miss  Emily,  "  we  usually  stay  at 
home  on  Thursday  evening,  as  much  as  we  can,  and  often 
plan  to  have  company.  It  is  this  evening.  Our  parlors 
are  very  large ;  indeed,  they  are  one  great  drawing-room. 
To-night,  perhaps,  three  or  four  of  the  teachers  in  the 
school  with  me  may  come  in.  No  set  entertainment  at 
all,  but  social  chat  and,  perhaps,  some  literary  talk  or 
select  reading.  Will  you  join  us  ?" 

The  invitation  was  accepted  at  once,  and  Roy  was  well 
read  enough  to  like  it  thoroughly.  When  the  young  man 
took  hold  of  his  painting  that  day  it  seemed  to  go  as  if 
it  had  a  special  impetus,  and  there  began  to  be  a  little 
satisfaction  in  the  improved  quality  of  his  pictures.  It 
was  a  favorite  quotation  of  Mr.  Titcombe's,  "Art  is  long, 
nnd  time  is  fleeting,"  and  he  believed  that  to  be  a  good 
artist  is  a  life  work.  Roy  found  it  true:  to  be  a  o-Ood 

O 

judge   of   sculpture,  statuary,  oil  paintings  of  all  kinds, 
engravings   of   all   kinds,   and   books   of   enough   kinds, 


LIFE   WITH   SOME  FLAVOR   IN   IT.  107 

requires  a  vast  amount  of  reading  and  conversation  with 
others  who  knew  more  than  he  did.  So  each  day  was 
full  of  pictures  to  study,  books  to  consult  or  read,  or  work 
to  do.  The  evening  brought  company.  Mr.  Stacy,  who 
is  a  teacher,  and  his  wife,  who  had  been  a  teacher,  and 
three  lady  teachers,  five  in  all ;  these,  with  the  quartette, 
counted  nine  in  the  parlor.  Mrs.  Warren  was  with  her 
daughters  in  their  enjoyments,  and  she  was  well  educated, 
and  the  best  of  company.  Roy  was  presented  to  the  new 
comers,  and,  after  listening  awhile,  he  gradually  joined  in 
the  conversation. 

They  spoke  of  Robert  Burns,  read  selections  from  him, 
"  Auld  Lang  Syne  "  and  "  Highland  Mary." 

Roy  asked,  "  If  Burns  was  living  now,  could  he  achieve 
the  fame  that  he  won  in  his  time?" 

Some' thought  yes,  some  thought  doubtful. 

Said  Mr.  Stacy,  "Mr.  Bartlett,  please  tell  us  what  you 
like  best  in  Burns,  which  are  his  best  poems,  what  you 
like  or  dislike  in  the  man,  and  what  you  think  in  general 
about  him."  It  was  a  nice  way  Mr.  Stacy  had  of  drawing 
people  out.  Mr.  Stacy  was  a  fine  talker,  a  good  listener, 
and  a  very  agreeable,  profitable  companion.  Some 
teachers  get  these  qualities.  They  still  teach,  uncon- 
sciously, and  do  it  most  charmingly. 

Roy  answered,  "What  you  ask  in  a  sentence  could 
hardly  be  answered  in  a  sermon.  Robert  Burns  was  a 
wonderful  man.  Where  was  it  ever  done  before,  that  a 
ploughman  could  take  the  crabbed  provincial  dialect  of 
his  own  country  and  compel  the  world  to  sing  and  think 
in  it,  as  Burns  did  in  'Auld  Lang  Syne?'  And  to  write 
and  spell  it  too.  It  is  the  anomaly  of  the  world.  But 
it  is  the  love  and  humanity,  the  honest  heart  that  he 


108  THE  WILD   AETIST   IN   BOSTON. 

mingled  with  the  singing  'lilt'  of  his  songs.  No  finer, 
truer,  nobler  words  were  ever  written  than  '  Highland 
Mary.'  I  have  heard  Professor  Blish  recite  *  A  Man's  a 
Man  for  a'  that'  most  tellingly.  Fcrgusson's  Epitaph  is 
a  tribute  indeed.  I  arn  sorry  for  Burns' 3  faults,  —  for 
his  drunkenness  and  his  animal  coarseness.  I  am  sorry 
that,  among  all  the  songs  of  this  life,  that  more  of  them 
did  not  contain  some  promise  of  the  life  to  come.  I 
know  that  he  wrote  'To  Mary  in  Heaven.'  But  there  is 
one  of  his  poems  that  should  have  had  another  stanza;  it  is 
'John  Anderson,  My  Jo.'  Miss  Emily,  if  you  will  read 
it,  I  will  add  a  stanza  of  my  own."  She  did  so,  and  Roy 
added, — 

"  An'  when  we've  slept  together,  John, 

The  sleep  that  all  maun  sleep, 
And  waked  in  that  bright  world,  John, 

Where  all  maun  cease  to  weep ; 
There,  in  that  better  world,  John, 

No  sorrow  may  we  know, 
Or  fear  we  e'er  shall  part  again, 

John  Anderson,  my  Jo." 

The  listeners  asked  for  a  copy,  which  Roy  repeated  to 
them  as  they  wrote  it. 

Mrs.  Warren  asked  :  "  Mr.  Bartlett,  have  you  been  in 
Boston  much  before?  " 

"  Not  very  much  ;  only  short  visits." 

"  Now,  please  tell  us  what  has  made  the  most  impres- 
sion on  you  since  you  came  to  live  here?  What  has 
recurred  to  you  oftenest,  and  made  the  most  impression." 

He  answered:  "One  thing  is  apparent,  the  immense 
interest  that  Boston  takes  in  art,  music,  and  amusements. 
But  that  is  not  answering  your  questions.  To  do  so  I 


LIFE   WITH   SOME  FLAVOR   IN   IT.  109 

must  tell  you  a  story.  A  few  days  ago,  just  at  dark,  as  it 
began  to  show  the  lights  plainly,  I  was  in  a  West  End 
car,  on  Charles  Street,  going  from  Cambridge  to  Boyl- 
ston  Streets.  A  lady  and  little  girl  got  in.  The  lady 
was  tall,  handsome,  and  very  well  dressed  ;  everything  in 
the  most  perfect  taste,  as  if  she  had  the  best  common 
sense,  and  also  ample  means.  The  little  girl  was  dressed 
with  more  ornament,  and  was  evidently  the  only  child. 
And  a  most  beautiful  one  she  was.  They  sat  in  the  rear 
end  of  the  car,  opposite  to  me.  Next  to  them  was  a 
dear,  motherly  looking  old  lady.  Next,  a  tall  woman,  in 
deep  mourning.  Then  a  well-dressed  man,  with  gold 
jewelry,  heavy  and  solid.  He  looked  like  an  Englishman, 
one  used  to  command ;  an  old  pirate,  dogmatic,  and  per- 
haps insufferable.  Six  of  us  in  all.  As  soon  as  the 
mother  and  child  were  seated,  the  child  began  to  have  a 
frolic,  which  brought  the  sunniest  smiles  to  the  mother's 
face.  The  child  would  laugh,  catch  its  mother's  hand, 
and  kiss  it ;  then  insist  upon  the  other  hand,  and  kiss 
that ;  then  take  the  mother  easily  by  her  nose  and  one 
ear,  holding  her  off  at  arm's  length  to  look  at  her;  then, 
clasping  her  arms  around  the  happy  mother's  neck,  would 
kiss  her  lips,  her  nose,  her  forehead,  her  ear,  in  a  perfect 
gale  of  childish  love,  laughter,  and  frolic.  Every  passen- 
ger smiled  in  joy  and  sympathy.  It  continued  until  the 
mother  arose  to  leave  the  car  at  Boylston  Street.  There, 
as  the  child  was  in  her  mother's  arms,  she  turned  to  us 
all,  and,  looking  like  the  radiant  angel  that  she  was,  she 
spread  her  little  arms,  and  said,  in  the  sweetest  voice, 
'By!  by!'  The  motherly  looking  woman  said,  'God 
bless  you,  dear ! '  The  woman  in  mourning  burst  out 
sobbing.  The  old  pirate,  in  the  corner,  said,  '  God  bless 


110  THE    WILD  ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

her  dear  little  heart.  Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven,' 
and  my  own  heart  smote  me  in  the  ribs,  and  tried  to 
choke  me ;  while  my  eyes  clouded  up  for  rain,  until 
everything  looked  misty.  I  have  told  the  story  exactly 
as  it  was,  —  time,  place,  characters,  everything.  It  needed 
no  embellishment.  If  any  one  mentioned  in  it  ever  sees 
it,  I  wish  to  give  kindest,  dearest  regards  to  the  motherly 
old  lady,  my  tender  sympathy  to  the  woman  in  mourning, 
who  had  lost  her  loved  one.  I  give  my  acknowledgments 
to  the  old  pirate  in  the  corner,  for  I  believe  he  was  a 
mellow-hearted  old  Christian.  I  hereby  say,  that  the 
thing  that  impressed  me  most,  and  recurred  to  me  often- 
est,  is  the  blessing  that  God  gave  to  that  happy  mother, 
that  holy  love-feast,  and  the  parting  benediction  of  that 
sweet  little  child." 

Mrs.  Warren  silently  gave  her  heartiest  approval  to  the 
story,  and  wiped  it  away  with  her  handkerchief. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

IT  IS  GOOD  TO  HAVE  A  MAN  IN  THE  HOUSE. 

ONE  evening,  after  the  company  were  gone,  Roy  took  a 
trip  to  the  land  of  Nod,  and  it  lasted  until  the  time  when, 
if  he  had  been  at  home,  Canis  Major  would  have  come 
pitching  upstairs  to  greet  him.  It  was  near  six  o'clock. 
As  soon  as  he  opened  his  chamber  door  a  succession  of 
shrieks  came  from  the  room  beneath  his,  which  was  occu- 
pied by  Miss  Sarah  Warren.  They  continued,  —  dreadful 
shrieks.  The  door  was  locked.  It  was  the  work  of  but 
a  moment,  to  throw  his  whole  weight  against  it,  and, 
after  a  hard  trial,  to  burst  it  in.  Miss  Sarah  was  hanging 
by  her  hand  to  a  high  hook  in  her  closet.  She  had 
arisen,  and,  in  her  long  night-dress,  had  attempted  by 
standing  on  a  chair,  to  take  down  a  dress  from  her  ward- 
robe. It  was  hitched.  In  trying  to  get  it  loose,  a  pointed 
hook  had  gone  inside  of  a  loose  gold  ring,  the  chair  had 
tipped  over  and  left  her  hanging  by  one  finger.  It  was 
awful  torture.  Roy  seized  her  and  lifted  her  up,  but 
could  not  get  it  free.  Then  .he  held  her  up,  and  by 
reaching  up,  although  it  cut  and  bruised  his  own  fingers, 
he  tore  the  hook  out  of  the  wall,  and  lay  Miss  Sarah  on 
the  bed  in  a  dead  faint.  Then  with  much  care,  but  strong 
force,  he  took  the  treacherous  hook  out  of  her  ring,  and 
went  with  flying  leaps  down  the  stairs  for  help.  "  Come 
upstairs.  Come  quick.  Sarah  is  hurt.  Bring  camphor 
or  ammonia." 

Ill 


112  THE  WILD  ARTIST  IN   BOSTON. 

They  came,  and  after  chafing  her  hands  and  feet  and 
applying  restoratives,  she  became  conscious  of  her  suffer- 
ing. 

"  Now,"  said  Roy,  "  I  will  go  to  my  room  and  get  a 
small  pair  of  cutting  nippers  that  I  have,  and  I  will  cut 
off  the  ring,  for  her  finger  is  too  badly  injured  to  take  it 
off  any  other  way.  Please  get  a  dish  of  warmish  water 
and  bandages,  that. I  may  close  the  wound  and  care  for  it 
until  a  doctor  can  be  called." 

The  ring  was  cut  off,  the  finger  examined,  and  the  bone 
found  not  broken,  although  the  flesh  was  badly  torn  and 
bleeding,  and  the  hand  strained  and  bruised.  Roy  placed 
the  injured  part  in  the  right  position,  softened  and  re- 
stored the  bruises  as  well  as  he  could,  and  then  he  did  up 
the  finger  and  hand  with  a  wet  compress.  When  Roy 
had  given  all  needed  help  he  went  below,  leaving  Mrs. 
Warren  and  Emily  to  complete  her  toilet.  In  a  little 
while  they  all  came  down  to  breakfast.  Miss  Sarah, 
although  she  had  a  severe  strain  and  a  bad  wound,  was 
still  a  young  lady  of  fine  courage.  Oh,  don't  sniff  at  that, 
reader.  A  woman  will  always  have  a  tooth  extracted 
with  better  grit  than  a  man,  and  any  dentist  will  tell  you 
so.  But  if  you  had  seen  the  thankfulness  of  Miss  Sarah, 
especially,  and  also  of  her  mother  and  sister,  you  would 
have  thought  that  Roy  had  made  a  good  beginning  with 
one  of  Boston's  splendid  daughters.  Miss  Sarah  drank 
her  cup  of  coffee,  and  lay  at  ease,  as  much  as  the  pain 
would  allow  her  to,  upon  the  sofa,  until  the  doctor  came. 
He  uncovered  the  wound.  "Who  did  up  this  wound?" 
he  asked. 

"  Mr.  Bartlett,  a  gentleman  who  is  here  with  us." 

"  This  is  all  right.     I  don't  see  what  you  want  of  a 


IT  IS  GOOD  TO  HAVE  A  MAN  IN  THE  HOUSE.      113 

doctor  while  he  is  here."  He  gave  directions.  He 
thought  Miss  Sarah  would  let  her  piano  have  a  vacation 
for  a  few  weeks.  She  did.  The  doctor  called  once  more, 
and  Mrs.  Warren  said,  if  any  change  came  for  the  worse, 
she  would  send  for  him.  But  morning  and  night,  Mrs. 
Warren  said  to  Roy,  "Now,  doctor,  will  you  examine  the 
wound  of  your  patient."  Roy  did.  He  dressed  it,  soft- 
ening and  healing  it  with  castile  soap  and  easy  rubbing, 
and  twice  a  day,  half  jokingly,  consenting  to  be  called 
doctor,  while  he  was  doing  a  doctor's  work.  If  Mr.  Guy 
Bartlett  could  have  been  invisible,  and  have  seen  how 
much  good  Roy  could  do  with  his  amateur  studying  of 
medicine  and  surgery,  he  would  have  been  pleased,  and 
he  might  have  thought  he  was  seeing  the  dawn  of  love. 
If  he  had  known  what  a  woman  Sarah  Warren  was,  he 
would  have  said,  "  I  will  risk  my  boy,  if  Mrs.  Warren  will 
risk  her  girl."  And  he  would  have  been  safe. 

These  young  people  were  splendid,  perfect  animals.  And 
more  than  that,  the  intellectual  was  equally  fine.  They 
were  well-read,  had  seen  plays,  and  I  shall  not  pretend  that 
they  did  not  know  the  history  of  the  Grand  Old  Passion. 
And  Roy  did  a  dangerous  thing.  But  he  did  it  safely. 
One  kiss  which  might  have  been  granted,  one  show  of 
devotion,  one  earnest  expression  of  desire  for  full  and 
lifelong  ownership,  might  have  brought  a  splendid  result. 
But  he  kept  within  the  limits  of  help  only,  and  ceased 
that  when  it  was  no  longer  needed.  And  so  it  came  to 
pass,  that  these  young  people  lost  neither  their  heads  or 
their  hearts.  I  like  a  man  that  can  hold  his  horses.  The 
business  part  of  his  obligation  was  paid  promptly  and 
fully.  After  Miss  Sarah  had  recovered  and  was  able  to 
play  again,  it  was  a  joy  to  hear  her.  Her  piano  was  one 


114  THE   WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

of  the  best  Henry  F.  Miller  pianos,  and  was  cared  for  by 
Mr.  Miller,  from  the  warerooms.  Consequently,  it  was 
always  at  its  best,  and  Miss  Sarah's  playing  was  a  surprise 
and  a  revelation  to  Roy.  A  little  later,  he  found  a  pack- 
age in  his  room,  upon  his  dressing-case,  addressed  on  the 
wrapper  only,  "Dr.  Royal  Bartlett,"  on  opening  it  he 
found  two  large  volumes,  richly  bound  in  full  Turkey 
morocco.  They  were  "Rogers'  Poems"  and  "Rogers' 
Italy,"  in  the  richest  style,  and  with  Turner's  illustrations. 
Henry  Ward  Beecher  once  said,  "  I  received  a  letter  this 
morning,  written  as  elegantly  as  if  it  came  from  Boston." 
On  the  inside  leaf  of  each  book  was  also  written,  and 
quite  as  elegantly,  "  Mr.  Royal  Bartlett,  a  present  from 
Mrs.  Parna  Warren,  Miss  Emily  Warren,  Miss  Sarah 
Warren."  It  was  a  rich,  tasteful,  artistic,  valuable,  mag- 
nificent present.  Roy  went  downstairs  to  interview  the 
ladies. 

He  said,  "  Mrs.  Warren,  of  course  I  am  very  grateful 
for  your  magnificent  present.  It  is  just  my  taste,  with 
all  those  exquisite  illustrations.  But  you  give  me  too 
expensive  a  present,  by  far.  Those  books  cost  no  small 
sum  of  money." 

"  Can  you  keep  a  secret  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Warren. 

"lean." 

"  Then  I  will  give  you  one,  and  mind  you  keep  it.  I 
am  glad  to  give  you  these  books,  and  you  need  not  worry 
about  what  they  cost,  for  I  have  not  spent  half  of  my  in- 
come any  year,  for  these  last  ten  years.  Now  are  you 
satisfied  ?  " 

"  I  am,"  said  Roy,  "  but  I  earnestly  hope  you  will  keep 
it  in  safe  places,  fly  no  kites  with  it,  and  not  put  too 
much  of  it  in  one  place,  like  the  farmer  that  put  too 


IT  IS  GOOD  TO  HAVE  A  MAN  IN  THE  HOUSE.     115 

many  eggs  in  one  basket.  In  general,  I  hope  you  will 
keep  it,  so  it  will  be  a  blessing  to  you  all,  as  long  as  you 
live.  Your  secret  pleases  me." 

All  this  time,  which  was  not  long,  Roy  had  not  been 
unmindful  of  his  home.  He  wrote  satisfactory  letters  to 
his  home,  but  thought  he  would  stay  away  until  Thanks- 
giving day.  He  had  a  kind  invitation  to  go  to  church 
with  Mrs.  Warren  and  her  daughters.  "  What  church 
do  you  attend?"  "Oh,  we  go  to  the  West  church  and 
hear  dear  old  Dr.  Bartol."  It  is  a  sign  of  a  good  church 
and  a  good  minister,  where  they  talk  so  kindly  as  many 
Boston  families  do  about  Rev.  Dr.  Bartol.  I  meet  it 
constantly.  Roy  said  he  would  be  glad  to  go  soon,  but 
had  promised  his  mother  that  he  would  go  to  Park 
Street  church,  with  friends  who  had  already  appropriated 
him  for  two  Sundays.  And  so  Roy  went  to  church  and 
heard  Dr.  Withrow,  Dr.  Bartol,  Phillips  Brooks,  the 
Tremont  Temple  pastor,  and  others.  He  did  his  level 
best  to  paint  better,  in  purer  color,  that  would  not  fade 
or  turn  green  or  black.  He  took  his  opera  glass,  which 
was  a  good  magnifier,  to  places  where  many  oil  paintings 
were  to  be  seen,  and  studied  them  from  an  easy  seat  in 
the  middle  of  the  room.  A  very  comfortable,  enjoyable 
way,  that  does  not  tire  you  to  death.  He  used  the  public 
library,  and  it  helped  him.  He  went  to  Harvard  College 
library  and  saw  such  books  as  the  elephant  folio,  illus- 
trated "Piranisi"  that  shows  Roman  antiquities,  the 
illustrated  "  Lepsius  "  on  the  Nile  valley,  the  illustrated 
"  Dante,"  and  magnificent  folios  where  only  a  few  copies 
were  printed,  some  by  the  first  Napoleon,  some  by  the 
second  Napoleon,  called  Napoleon  III.,  and  by  the  rich 
and  titled  men  of  the  world.  Such  books  can  only  be 


116  THE   WILD  ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

seen  in  the  great  libraries  of  the  world.  He  attended 
strictly  to  his  art  education.  He  did  not  adopt  a 
theory,  set  up  for  a  critic,  pick  up  an  ism,  mount  a 
hobby,  become  a  reformer,  or  a  man  with  a  mission.  So 
he  was  not  remarkable  in  any  way.  And  for  this  cause 
he  was  a  very  remarkable  man.  I  am  afraid  this  state- 
ment is  a  little  mixed,  but  I  do  not  see  how  I  can  im- 
prove it. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

EOY    GOES    HOME    TO    THANKSGIVING. 

SOME  years  ago  a  governor  of  Mississippi  wrote  his 
proclamation  like  this,  —  "  It  is  a  custom  to  appoint  a  day 
of  thanksgiving.  All  things  must  have  an  author,  and 
it  is  usual  to  call  that  author  God.  Some  think  it  is  wise 
to  give  thanks  to  him  for  the  blessings  we  receive,  and 
ask  for  a  continuance  of  them.  Such  a  practice  can  do 
no  harm,  and  may  do  much  good.  I  therefore  appoint  a 
day  of  thanksgiving."  Such  things  do  not  grow  in  Mass- 
achusetts or  New  Hampshire. 

All  of  the  tribe  of  Bartlett  that  I  ever  met  had  got  be- 
yond their  alphabet  in  revelation.  When  the  train  rolled 
into  the  station  at  Dover,  N.  H.,  on  Wednesday  evening, 
before  the  Thanksgiving  that  comes  on  Thursday,  Roy 
Bartlett  was  there,  and  was  not  long  in  getting  a  hearty 
grip  from  Sam  Ellet.  If  they  had  been  brothers  they 
could  not  have  been  better  friends.  Old  Tom  was  not 
long  in  taking  them  home. 

"  The  prodigal  son  has  come  home,"  said  Sam. 

"  How  is  the  wild  artist  ?  "  said  his  father,  laughing,  as 
he  shook  him  by  the  hand. 

"  The  wild  artist  is  all  right,  and  glad  to  get  home  to 
his  father  and  mother." 

Mother  Bartlett  greeted  him  with  a  smiling  face,  which 
in  a  moment  overflowed  with  grateful  tears.  It  was  a 
happy  home  coming.  Canis  Major  was  wild  with  joy. 

117 


118  THE   WILD   ARTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

Nothing  would  content  him  until  Roy  sat  down  and  took 
his  big  brown  and  white  head  and  shoulders  in  his  lap, 
and  let  the  dog  kiss  him  to  his  heart's  content.  Grimal- 
kin came  purring  around,  and  was  soon  in  Roy's  lap,  and 
while  Roy  laughed  to  see  it  all,  the  pelican  tuned  up  and 
sang  its  very  best.  Roy's  welcome  was  complete.  Then 
the  supper.  Chicken  pie  and  sweet-apple  pudding,  baked 
in  the  brick  oven,  with  warm  biscuit  from  wheat  grown 
on  the  farm. 

I  once  heard  a  city  missionary  ask  a  sailor  what  he 
believed  in.  "I  believe  in  good  eating  and  drinking," 
was  the  answer.  It  is  the  prevailing  faith  of  the  world  ; 
but  in  practice,  only  a  few  people  ever  know  what  good 
living  is.  I  have  eaten  the  food  as  prepared  by  many 
nationalities,  and  been  in  high  or  low  places,  but  never 
had  better  food  than  I  have  had  in  the  Bartlett  Home- 
stead. Roy  and  Sam  Ellet  thought  so  to-night.  The 
thanks  were  given  and  every  heart  was  uplifted.  The 
supper  was  enjoyed,  and  then  and  after,  Roy  was  told 
of  all  they  could  think  of,  that  was  news  to  him,  from 
Garrison  Hill  to  Durham,  and  from  Sawyer's  mills  to 
Rochester. 

Roy  asked,  "How  is  Will  Glance  doing?" 

"Working  some,  but  it  is  evident  that  he  does  not  like 
it,  and  I  believe  he  is  a  dangerous  man."  said  Mr.  Bartlett. 

"  I  have  no  confidence  in  him,"  said  Sam. 

"How  is  Jean  Me  Duffle  doing?" 

"Well  as  a  man  can.  His  father  tells  me  he  is  making 
some  money  by  hauling  lumber,  and  as  he  has  his  father's 
team  and  all  he  can  make,  of  course  he  can  do  well." 

Roy  was  glad  of  it. 

"Now,  father,  I  expect  to  be  here  at  home  until  next 


ROY  GOES   HOME   TO   THANKSGIVING.          119 

Monday  morning.  This  will  give  me  Thanksgiving,  two 
others,  and  Sunday  to  go  to  church  with  you.  You  know 
that  children  like  stories,  so  Sam  and  I  want  one.  Tell 
us  a  New  Hampshire  Thanksgiving  story. " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Sam. 

"  Tell  them  about  Frank  Garland,"  said  Mrs.  Bartlett. 
"That  is  a  good  story,  and  it  comes  straight  enough  to 
be  true.  It  is  a  good  picture  of  the  old  times  and  the 
old  families." 

Mr.  Bartlett  thought  a  moment,  and  then  began  — 

A  Thanksgiving  Story  of  the  Olden  Time. 

MOST  people  like  a  real  story.  So  do  I,  and  what  I 
tell  you,  I  know  to  be  true  myself,  or  have  heard  it  from 
good  people.  It  can  do  no  harm,  for  the  family  are  all 
gone,  years  ago.  If  you  were  in  Dover  and  take  the  Tol- 
lend  road,  up  by  Peter  Cushing's,  and  the  Heath  House, 
and  through  the  birches  where  the  huckleberries  grow, 
then  instead  of  going  to  the  right  by  Ezra  Hayes's  around 
Green  Hill,  you  keep  to  the  left,  on  the  old  road  that 
goes  over  Green  Hill,  passing  Jonathan  Young's  and  the 
George  Wiggin  farm,  then  half  a  mile  beyond  that,  on 
the  right,  you  come  to  an  old  cellar  hole,  that  was  the 
Garland  Farm.  A  few  rods  beyond  the  cellar,  just  as  you 
begin  to  descend  the  hill,  over  the  wall  on  the  right,  is 
the  family  burial-ground.  The  house  was  a  large  one, 
two  stories  high,  with  as  many  as  twelve  or  fifteen  rooms 
in  it.  The  fireplaces  were  large,  and  I  think  there  were 
as  many  as  six  in  the  house.  The  one  in  the  kitchen  was 
nearly  large  enough  to  burn  wood  of  sled  length.  The 
house  was  well  built,  well  clapboarded,  but  never  painted. 
The  barn  was  a  very  long  one,  and  I  have  seen  it  well 


120  THE    WILD   AKTIST  IN   BOSTON. 

filled  with  hay  and  cattle  and  large  stacks  of  hay  beside. 
It  was  six  and  a  half  miles  from  Dover,  which  is  a  good 
market.  They  raised  a  great  deal  of  corn,  hay,  potatoes, 
an  immense  quantity  of  apples,  cider,  and  hogs,  and  no 
end  of  produce.  I  have  seen  large  flocks  of  geese,  ducks, 
guinea  hens,  calling  go  back,  go  back,  turkeys,  hens,  and 
chickens,  and  several  peacocks.  There  always  was  a 
cloud  of  doves  around  the  buildings,  and  often  I  have 
seen  them  feed  the  poultry.  It  was  a  sight  to  behold.  A 
large  basket  of  shelled  corn,  and  when  they  were  called, 
oh,  what  a  scamper.  The  doves  were  not  content  to 
catch  the  corn,  that  was  scattered  far  and  wide,  but  they 
flew  at  once  upon  the  basket  and  the  man  that  held  it, 
and  he  was  covered  with  doves.  There  were  several 
hundreds  in  that  Babel  of  poultry.  He  soon  scattered  the 
grain  and  fed  the  multitude.  The  farm  had  wild  straw- 
berries, raspberries,  blackberries,  and  blueberries ;  beside, 
in  the  garden,  currants,  gooseberries,  English  cherries,  and 
plums  in  abundance.  Then  a  plenty  of  grapes,  and,  last 
but  not  least,  the  old  button  pear  tree,  more  than  two 
feet  through,  very  large  and  high,  and  altogether  the 
largest  pear  tree  that  I  ever  saw.  One  neighbor  said  he 
had  eaten  its  fruit  for  over  seventy  years,  and  he  could 
not  remember,  the  time  when  it  looked  much  younger 
than  it  did  then.  It  bore  alternate  years,  and  although 
it  would  be  hard  to  find  pears  over  an  inch  in  diameter, 
yet  they  were  very  sweet,  and  I  think  its  crop  would  be  a 
large  cartful.  The  ground  was  well  fertilized,  so  it  grew 
large  and  lived  long.  At  last  it  grew  hollow.  Then  the 
ants  moved  into  it  and  alas!  it  blew  down.  A  better 
servant,  farmer  never  had.  The  children  could  not  eat 
much  in  pear  time,  they  were  so  full  of  button  pears. 


ROY   GOES    HOME  TO   THANKSGIVING.          121 

Oh,  you  need  not  pity  our  ancestors  much,  after  the  Ind- 
ians kept  quiet,  for  I  can  hardly  remember  to  tell  of  all 
the  good  things  they  had.  The  Garland  farm  had  horses, 
three  or  four  yoke  of  oxen,  cows,  and  young  cattle,  and 
plenty  of  sheep  and  lambs.  The  spinning  wheel  was  often 
whirring,  and  the  linen  wheel  as  well,  and  in  the  big,  un- 
finished garret  were  reels,  swifts,  warping  bars,  and  a  big 
loom  to  make  woollen  cloth.  Mr.  Garland  had  about  four 
boys  and  two  girls.  As  this  is  a  Thanksgiving  story,  I 
\vill  say  that  they  had  all  had  an  abundant  supply  of 
Thanksgiving  comforts.  Those  were  stern  times.  Spare 
the  rod  and  spoil  the  child,  was  often  heard,  and  children 
had  to  suffer.  Said  Mr.  Garland  to  the  youngest  boy,  a 
little  past  fourteen  years  old,  Now,  Frank,  Thanksgiving 
day  is  gone  and  it  is  almost  bedtime.  It  is  time  to  rake 
Tip  the  fire,  to  keep  all  night.  Go  out  and  get  a  back-log 
that  will  keep.  It  was  nearly  nine  o'clock.  The  back-log 
ought  to  have  been  in  before  dark,  and  it  ought  not  to 
have  been  left  for  the  youngest  to  get.  It  is  not  best  to 
be  too  hard  on  the  baby.  It  was  bad  management.  Too 
bad.  Frank  went  to  the  door  without  his  hat.  It  was 
dark  and  cold,  with  some  snow  on  tha  ground.  He  tum- 
bled around  on  the  woodpile,  but  the  big  logs  were  frozen 
down,  and  he  could  only  get  loose  a  little  one,  as  big  as 
his  leg.  This  he  picked  up  and  carried  in.  The  old 
man  looked  at  it.  He  was  mad.  He  jumped  up,  took 
down  a  horsewhip  which  hung  in  a  corner  and  hit  Frank 
a  dozen  cuts  with  it.  Frank  bit  his  lips  and  took  it. 
When  the  old  man  was  done,  Frank  put  on  his  coat  and 
mittens  and  heard  his  father's  order.  Now  get  a  back-log, 
not  a  toothpick.  Frank  went  out.  He  stayed  out  just 
seven  years,  until  he  was  his  own  man  and  twenty-one 


122  THE   WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

years  old.  Then  after  dark  on  Thanksgiving  evening  he 
came  and  looked  in  at  the  window  of  the  Garland  home. 
The  old  man  was  there  and  the  mother  and  most  of  the 
children.  Frank  was  a  strapping  big  fellow,  with  strength 
in  his  back  and  money  in  his  pocket.  He  went  to  the 
woodpile.  He  took  the  biggest  log  he  could  find,  carried 
it  in  and  laid  it  down  before  his  father,  saying,  Here,  father, 
here's  your  back-log.  So  it  is,  said  the  old  ma'n.  But  I 
have  almost  a  mind  to  lick  you  again,  for  being  gone  so 
long  after  it.  You  are  not  big  enough,  said  Frank.  No, 
said  his  father,  perhaps  not.  At  any  rate  I  do  not  wish 
to  try,  for  I  have  done  it  once  too  much  already.  Frank's 
mother  and  sisters  wept  over  him,  his  brothers  greeted 
him  with  welcome.  His  father  showed  that  he  was  a 
sinner,  and  as  Frank  had  made  money  and  saved  a  hand- 
some sum,  so  the  righteous  son  forgave  the  prodigal 
father,  and  they  lived  happy  ever  after.  The  back-log 
lasted  several  days. 

The  next  morning  Canis  Major  came  upstairs  in 
double-quick  time,  and  there  was  Roy,  sure  enough. 
The  hearty,  loving  dog  almost  turned  himself  wrong 
side  out  with  joy.  Then  the  cattle  had  to  be  interviewed 
and  talked  to  and  petted,  the  sheep  fed,  and  all  the  stock 
seen  and  spoken  kindly  to,  even  to  the  hogs,  hens,  tur- 
keys, geese,  and  ducks.  When  all  had  been  cared  for, 
and  the  breakfast  enjoyed,  they  all  sat  in  the  large  sitting- 
room,  with  Canis  Major  keeping  close  watch  of  Roy  to 
see  that  he  did  not  disappear  again.  Then  thei'e  was  a 
good  time  for  Roy  to  tell  of  all  that  he  had  been  doing 
in  Boston.  He  told  them  how  Miss  Sarah  had  got  hung 
up  in  her  closet,  how  he  had  helped  her  down,  how  he 
had  played  doctor,  and  also  of  his  rich  present. 


EOT  GOES  HOME   TO   THANKSGIVING.          123 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Sam,  "  I  guess  it  is  coming." 

"  What  ?  "  asked  Roy. 

"Some  splendid  woman  to  occupy  those  stockings." 

Roy  said,  "  He  had  not  found  her  as  yet,  and  had  seen 
no  signs  of  her  except  the  stockings." 

Then  Jean  McDuffie  rode  into  the  yard.  Roy  and  Sam 
walked  out  with  Jean. 

"  I  wanted  to  see  you,"  said  Jean.  "  You  wished  to 
hear  of  any  good  that  might  come  to  me.  I  have  been 
teaming  this  fall,  and  have  laid  up  money.  I  have  about 
three  hundred  dollars  in  the  Dover  Savings  Bank.  I 
have  met  a  woman  who  is  awful  good  to  me,  and  I  am 
to  her.  Don't  you  speak  of  it,  because  I  do  not  care  to 
have  the  world  know  my  business  before  I  know  it  my- 
self. You  know  I  can  sing  some.  She  is  a  fine  singer 
too,  and  we  shall  be  married  as  soon  as  we  can  fix  things 
to  our  minds.  Father  wants  me  to  bring  her  home  to 
live.  She  has  saved  considerably  more  than  I  have.  So, 
instead  of  being  dead  and  buried,  I  am  alive,  happy,  and 
very  thankful." 

The  young  men  congratulated  him,  and  they  were  all 
in  a  mood  to  appreciate  the  day.  So  the  golden  hours 
passed  on,  with  kind  words  from  friends,  a  sermon  in  the 
brick  church  with  the  golden  rooster  on  it,  and  all  of  the 
blessing  of  home  and  friends,  and  on  Monday  morning 
Roy's  visit  was  ended.  Canis  Major  looked  discouraged 
enough.  He  watched  Roy  and  Sam  out  of  sight,  and 
was  not  comforted  when  Sam  returned  without  Roy. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

ROY  AGAIN  OCCUPIES  BOSTON. 

THE  Warrens  were  glad  to  have  their  young  man  with 
them  again.  And  why  should  they  not  ?  He  was  not  a 
reformer,  ready  to  attack  every  one  whose  opinions  dif- 
fered a  shade  from  his.  He  was  not  a  growler  at  all. 
He  was  not  as  full  of  dislikes  as  a  herring  is  of  bones. 
His  young  life  tasted  good  to  him,  and  it  was  his,  as  it 
may  be  almost  every  one's  privilege,  to  make  it  so.  Some 
people  can  never  see  a  brilliant  butterfly  without  spoiling 
to  clutch  it.  And  when  they  do,  what  have  they?  A  ruined 
butterfly  and  a  dirty  hand.  He  fitted  into  his  place,  in 
the  home  life  of  the  Warrens,  better  than  if  he  had  been 
born  into  it,  on  the  same  principle  that  the  average  young 
sprig  is  so  devoted  to  another  man's  sister,  and  so  care- 
less of  his  own.  But  Koy  would  have  been  devoted  to 
his  own. 

The  breakfasts  were  very  pleasant,  the  suppers  were  a 
reunion,  and  a  joy  to  the  corporeal,  social,  and  intellectual 
man.  Mrs.  Warren  enjoyed  life  well.  Miss  Emily  often 
met,  in  her  associations  as  teacher,  many  enjoyable 
things;  Miss  Sarah  was  an  enchantress  with  her  piano. 
The  Thursday  evening  coterie  often  came  together,  and 
then  there  was  something  entertaining. 

Sam  came  to  Boston  for  a  week.  Then  Roy  was  kept 
busy.  Sometimes  one  or  both  of  the  young  ladies  went 

124 


BOY   AGAIN   OCCUPIES   BOSTON.  125 

out  with  Sam.  They  rather  liked  the  rosy  young  man 
with  the  quiet  manners.  In  one  way  or  another,  they 
managed  to  keep  him  busy.  They  wrent  to  church,  to 
the  public  library,  to  the  Art  Club,  to  the  studios,  to  see 
Edwin  Booth,  and  to  see  Denman  Thompson,  in  the  Xew 
Hampshire  play.  When  the  week  was  over,  Sam  was 
thankful  and  satisfied.  He  was  glad  to  go  home  and  go 
to  work.  There  is  some  sense  in  such  a  visit.  Have 
your  enjoyment,  make  it  taste  good,  always  be  glad  of  it, 
and  stop  when  you  get  enough. 

Then  Roy  bent  all  his  energies  to  painting  better  pict- 
ures. His  expenses  were  light,  and  he  sold  enough  to 
pay  his  way,  and  more.  One  day  he  went  into  Leonard's 
auction  room.  There  were  several  pictures  to  be  sold, 
although  it  was  not  a  regular  picture  sale.  There  were 
four  oil  paintings  sold  together.  They  went  for  a  small 
sum,  I  think  about  a  dollar  apiece.  When  the  buyer  came 
to  examine  them  and  get  the  dust  off,  they  were  found  to 
be  signed  pictures  by  an  eminent  French  artist.  A  little 
later  the  set  was  sold  for  six  hundred  dollars.  Then 
Roy  began  to  look  sharp  at  pictures,  both  for  name  and 
quality.  He  looked  at  them  in  earnest.  A  little  later,  in 
taking  a  walk,  he  saw  a  large  German  battle  scene.  It 
was  full  of  figures,  and  well  done.  They  asked  five  dol- 
lars for  it.  The  frame  was  a  good  one,  and  that  alone  was 
worth  more.  He  bought  it.  Within  a  week  he  was  offered 
fifty  for  it,  and  sold  it.  A  dealer  bought  it,  and  he  sold 
it  for  a  large  advance.  I  state  a  fact.  But  such  things 
do  not  often  happen.  But  it  does  often  happen  that  a 
man  who  is  wide  awake,  and  knows  the  uses  and  values 
of  many  things,  can  find  a  rich  reward  for  his  study. 
Once  Baron  Humboldt  was  travelling  in  Siberia.  He  saw 


126  THE  WILD   ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

what  was  visible  to  his  eyes  alone.  He  called  his  attend- 
ants. Said  he,  "There,  in  that  mountain  side,  ought  to 
be  found  a  most  valuable  plumbago  mine.  I  see  the 
si'i-ns  of  it."  They  worked  it,  and  found  it.  It  is  the 
best  plumbago  mine  in  all  the  world,  so  far  as  I  know, 
the  Alibert  mine,-that  gives  the  richest  supply  for  Faber's 
pencils.  It  is  a  mine  of  wealth  for  Russia. 

But  Roy  worked  the  hardest  to  find  some  value  in  his 
own  pictures.  He  gained  upon  it.  What  we  have  to 
learn  in  this  world  is  an  appalling  work.  To  begin,  all 
jammed  up  to  a  jelly,  with  only  the  breath  of  life  in  you, 
among  entire  strangers,  that  never  saw  you  before,  only 
about  a  foot  long,  and,  small  as  you  are,  to  be  considered 
the  biggest  joke  of  the  season,  when  you  don't  know  the 
taste  of  your  own  mother's  milk,  if  she  has  any,  from 
castor  oil ;  with  no  sense  or  much  feeling,  and  only  the 
least  bit  of  a  will  of  your  own,  which  you  inherit  from 
your  mother,  form  a  combination  of  circumstances 
enough  to  take  the  gimp  out  of  Mark  Tapley.  Roy 
never  thought  of  that,  but  he  quietly  kept  on  his  work, 
occupying  a  corner  of  Mr.  Titcombe's  studio. 

The  next  June  he  exchanged  Boston  for  the  Bartlett 
farm,  until  after  haying.  Mr.  Titcombe  took  a  sketching 
tour  of  a  week  in  Strafford  County,  with  Roy.  I  have 
some  of  the  sketches  that  Mr.  Titcombe  made.  Roy 
painted  pictures  for  his  home.  In  that  and  later  seasons 
he  sketched  with  Benjamin  Champney  at  North  Conway. 
Roy  loved  the  mountains  as  well  as  his  father  and 
mother.  Some  of  his  excursions  with  them :  —  They 
went  to  Portsmouth,  the  Isles  of  Shoals,  York  Beach,  Old 
Orchard  Beach,  Mount  Agamenticus,  Garrison  Hill, 
Grand  Monadnock,  White  Mountains,  and  other  places, 


ROY   AGAIN   OCCUPIES   BOSTON.  127 

where,  alone  or  with  some  good  fellow  of  an  artist,  he 
made  careful  sketches  in  oil,  water,  or  pencil. 

He  lived  with  the  Warrens  except  the  third  winter, 
when  they  were  in  Europe.  His  pictures  sold  better, 
and  he  laid  up  money.  He  painted  some  the  second  win- 
ter with  Mr.  Champney.  He  joined  the  Art  Club.  He 
sold  a  picture  to  Mr.  S.  R.  Knights,  real  estate  auctioneer, 
and  made  a  friend  of  him. 

Not  long  after  Mr.  Knights  called  on  him  again.  Said 
he,  "  Mr.  Bartlett,  I  have  a  brick  house  to  sell  to-morrow. 
It  is  well  mortgaged  for  half  its  value.  The  people  wish 
the  mortgage  to  remain,  as  they  do  not  need  the  money. 
Now,  Mr.  Bartlett,  there  may  be  a  chance  for  you  to  make 
something.  If  it  sells  for  less  than  a  thousand  dollars 
over  the  mortgage,  I  wish  you  to  buy  it.  If  it  brings 
more  let  it  go.  If  it  comes  to  you,  you  cannot  fail  to 
make  from  one  to  five  thousand  dollars  on  it.  Do  you 
wish  to  try  ?  It  is  near  Essex  street  and  business  is  work- 
ing that  way.  It  is  well  let  and  the  man  wants  a  lease. 
I  will  warrant  you  to  make  a  good  advance." 

Roy  went  with  Mr.  Knights  and  saw  the  estate.  The 
next  day,  he  bid  a  hundi'ed  dollars  over  the  mortgage, 
and,  although  the  auctioneer  dwelt  long  for  a  better  price, 
Roy  was  the  purchaser.  He  had  money  enough  by  him, 
to  pay.  Within  a  week  he  was  offered  a  thousand  dollars 
for  his  bargain.  Then  they  asked  him  what  he  would 
take.  He  did  not  say.  He  had  several  applications  to 
rent  it.  The  firm  who  occupied  it,  wanted  it  at  a  thou- 
sand dollars  a  year,  if  he  would  add  two  more  stories  with 
front  battlement  walls  and  a  flat  roof.  He  told  them 
they  could  have  it,  rent  free,  for  one  year,  by  paying 
taxes  only,  if  they  would  add  the  two  stories  satisfacto- 


128  THE   WILD   AKTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

rily.  They  took  it  quickly  and  did  well  by  it.  At  the 
end  of  the  year,  Roy  thought  he  owned  six  thousand 
dollars  in  the  estate.  He  told  his  father  and  mother 
about  it,  and  the  Warrens  also,  but  otherwise  he  kept  his 
own  counsel.  One  day  when  it  was  quite  rainy,  Roy  was 
in  the  Athenanim.  There  was  one  gentleman  there,  look- 
ing over  the  pictures.  So  Roy  took  a  chair  to  have  a 
good  look  at  Allston's  "  Belshazzar's  Feast."  He  took 
plenty  of  time  and  studied  it. 

Said  the  gentlenian,  "What  do  you  think  of  it?" 
Roy  looked  up  and  saw  a  pleasant,  middle-aged  man. 
Roy  told  him.  They  talked.  Roy  listened.  They  ana- 
lyzed the  pictures  together.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  listen 
to  that  man.  He  knew  something.  After  half  an  hour 
together,  they  paused  before  a  small  Fra  Angelico.  Roy 
praised  it.  "  Yes,  it  is  good,  but  I  have  three  better  ones 
by  the  same  artist."  Roy  opened  his  eyes  in  astonish- 
ment. 

"  Can  I  see  them  ?  "  asked  Roy. 

"  Certainly,  with  pleasure." 

"  Where  are  they  ?  " 

"On  Beacon  street,  nearly  opposite  the  Athenaeum." 

"What  is  your  name,  please  ?" 

"  Gardner  Brewer." 

He  did  see  Mr.  Brewer's  pictures  and  had  a  standing 
invitation  to  see  them  again,  when  he  pleased.  He  made 
a  splendid  friend.  This  is  written  exactly  as  it  occurred. 
It  was  a  joy  to  see  those  splendid  Fra  Angelicos,  Verboeck- 
hovens  and  all  Mr.  Brewer's  beautiful  pictures.  There 
were  also  many  models  of  the  finest  of  the  ruins  of  Greece 
and  Rome.  In  the  Brewer  fountain,  on  the  common, 
Boston  will  long  cherish  the  name  of  Gardner  Brewer. 


HOY  AGAIN  OCCUPIES  BOSTON.  129 

Roy  thought  to  himself,  what  a  splendid  thing  it  is  to  be 
rich,  to  own  works  of  art,  to  keep  them  in  order,  that 
people  may  see  and  enjoy  them.  What  a  blessing  wealth 
is,  for  rich  and  poor  alike. 

But  Roy  soon  met  a  different  kind  of  a  customer.  He 
was  walking  out  one  day,  and  was  attracted  by  a  large 
number  of  unset  stones,  in  a  broker's  window.  It  was  a 
small  place,  but  it  contained  several  things  of  interest. 
Second-hand  pictures,  books,  watches  and  jewelry.  The 
proprietor  Roy  had  seen  before.  There  was  a  man  about 
forty-five  years  of  age,  with  thin  gray  hair,  and  the  gen- 
eral nir  of  a  reformer,  an  animal  too  often  met  with. 
Although  the  proprietor  replied  not  much,  yet  the  man 
ventilated  his  opinions  very  freely. 

lie  said,  "  Yes,  sir.  I  assert  that  no  man  has  a  right 
to  amass  property.  Property  is  robbery.  All  you  get 
more  than  your  equal  share  you  rob  from  some  one  else. 
The  time  is  coming,  and  soon  too,  when  the  poor  will 
help  themselves  to  all  they  want.  Yes,  sir,  and  yer  cap- 
italists' heads  will  fly  like  shelling  peas."  (Fact,  word 
for  word.)  And  turning  to  Roy  he  demanded,  "  What  do 
you  think  of  that,  sir?" 

Roy  was  not  going  to  speak  to  or  notice  the  anarchist. 
But  lie  was  appealed  to,  and  it  made  him  angry.  His 
eyes  snapped,  his  color  rose,  he  clenched  his  fists  and  an- 
swered, "  Think  ?  Why,  I  think  you  are  the  biggest 
fool  I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  You  are  crazy  as  Bedlam. 
Wealth  is  the  poor  man's  blessing,  more  than  the  rich 
man's.  If  the  wealth  of  the  world  was  divided  equally, 
some  reckon  that  each  would  have  a  poor  hut  and  a  hun- 
dred dollars.  There  would  be  nothing  bigger  than  a  hut. 
Boston  would  be  a  collection  of  mud  huts.  There  would 


180  THE   WILD  ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

be  no  ships  at  sea,  no  railroads  or  any  decent  roads,  no 
decent  houses ;  no  literature,  for  it  takes  capital  to  pub- 
lish a  book ;  no  art,  for  we  should  have  to  dig  for  subsist- 
ence. Not  a  telegraph,  or  an  electric  or  gas  light.  No 
kerosene  even,  for  it  takes  mighty  capital  to  take  it  all 
over  the  world  and  so  wonderfully  cheap.  We  should 
all  be  a  poor,  helpless,  hopeless,  aimless,  starving  mass. 
Oh,  you  gray-headed  old  fool,  you  know  nothing  at  all. 
Capital  is  the  grain  that  Joseph  saved  in  Egypt  against 
seven  years  of  famine.  Capital  is  your  servant  and  help, 
and  mine  and  every  one's.  The  clothes  you  have  on,  far 
too  good  for  you,  would  be  out  of  your  reach,  for  capital 
makes  them  cheap.  The  watch  you  carry  would  never 
be,  but  for  capital.  The  flour  from  the  West,  the  food 
gathered  from  far  and  wide,  the  tea  from  China,  the  cof- 
fee from  Java,  would  be  impossible  but  for  capital.  Why  ! 
we  should  not  have  a  stage  coach  line  or  a  baggage  wagon, 
and  if  our  crops  fail  here,  we  might  starve  with  plenty  a 
hundred  miles  away.  But  now  Jay  Gould  is  my  servant 
and  he  will  carry  me  a  short  distance  or  a  long  one.  All 
rich  men  are  a  blessing  and  all  capital  is  wealth,  saved  up 
to  help  and  bless  mankind.  Honor  to  the  Astors.  They 
built  much  of  New  York.  Honor  to  the  Vanderbilts. 
They  built  great  steamships  and  railroads  to  carry  food 
for  us  all.  Honor  to  Jay  Gould.  As  soon  as  he  touches 
a  railroad,  it  is  at  once  a  safer,  better  public  servant  to 
carry  a  letter  for  me  thousands  of  miles  for  two  cents. 
But  the  fool  anarchist,  that  did  not  know  enough  to  get  a 
dollar  or  to  keep  it,  or  to  use  one  little  talent  wisely  and 
get  a  blessing  out  of  that,  had  his  talent  taken  from  him, 
and  he  was  kicked  into  hell  for  his  meanness.  And  it 
served  him  ri^ht." 


BOY  AGAIN   OCCUPIES   BOSTON.  131 

Roy  ceased.  He  had  freed  his  mind,  and  he  had  ex- 
pected a  fight.  The  anarchist  had  not  uttered  a  yip. 
When  Roy  had  done,  the  man  said  slowly,  "  I  had  not 
thought  of  it  that  way,"  and  he  went  slowly  out. 

Said  the  broker,  "  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  Mr. 
Bartlett.  It  is  good  missionary  work.  I  hope  that 
skunk  will  not  come  here  again." 

"  Yet,"  said  Roy,  "I  feel  as  though  I  had  been  doing  a 
dirty  act  in  talking  with  him.  I  shall  have  to  go  out  on 
the  common  where  the  wind  blows,  and  have  the  contam- 
ination taken  away.  Pshaw !  Capitalists'  heads  fly  like 
shelling  peas?  Still  the  wealth  would  remain,  and  capi- 
tal represents  all  of  God's  blessing  in  life,  and  all  that 
makes  life  desirable,  endurable,  or  possible."  Roy  walked 
by  the  soldiers'  monument  on  the  common.  He  read  the 
inscription  upon  it,  written  by  President  Eliot  of  Harvard 
University.  If  you  wish  to  see  a  sample  of  as  good  Eng- 
lish as  ever  was  written,  I  recommend  you  to  do  the 
same.  Gradually  he  forgot  his  resentment  against  the 
wretch,  who  could  so  ruffle  such  a  quiet  young  gentleman 
and  splendid  good  fellow.  In  1888,  the  man  with  the 
one  talent  is  acting  like  an  awful  fool,  and  I  earnestly 
hope  he  will  get  hurt,  until  he  learns  better. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

WILL  GLANCE  HAS  A  DRUNK. 

AFTER  Roy  had  been  in  Boston  a  year,  the  neighbors 
noticed  that  Will  Glance  drank  more  hard  liquors.  Mary 
looked  pale  and  anxious.  Glance  wanted  to  take  loads 
of  produce  to  Dover,  and  keep  the  money.  Mr.  Hoskins 
always  paid  him  his  twenty  dollars  a  month,  and  he  had 
no  board  to  pay.  One  day  Mr.  Hoskins  had  been  to 
market  with  potatoes.  He  had  turned  them  in  on  ac- 
count of  groceries,  and  he  had  not  much  ready  money 
with  him.  Glance  had  overdrawn  his  pay  considerably, 
and  must  have  had  whiskey  hidden  in  the  barn  some- 
where, he  smelt  so  strong  of  it,  and  was  so  ugly.  Mary 
was  afraid  of  him.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hoskins  did  not  con- 
sider him  safe.  Sam  Ellet  had  just  come  across  the 
fields  to  ask  the  price  of  potatoes.  Then  they  would 
know  if  it  was  best  to  dig  them  for  the  market.  Glance 
came  up  to  Mr.  Hoskins,  with  an  oath,  and  demanded 
money. 

He  was  answered,  "I  do  not  owe  you  any.  If  I  pay 
you  any  you  will  spend  it  for  liquor,  and  I  will  not  pay 
you  any." 

"Then,"  said  Glance,  crazy  with  anger  and  liquor, 
"  I  will  kill  you  both."  He  pulled  out  a  large  Colt's 
revolver  and  fired  at  Mr.  Hoskins's  head.  He  missed. 
The  ball  whizzed  by  his  head,  and  the  flash  singed 

132 


WILL  GLANCE  HAS  A  DRUNK.  133 

his  hair.  But  in  an  instant  Sam  Ellet  had  him  by 
the  arm,  and  he  and  Mr.  Hoskins  tried  to  get  the 
pistol  away  from  the  crazy  wretch.  Then,  at  once 
Sam  clutched  the  barrel  to  keep  himself  and  Mr.  Hoskins 
safe,  and  as  he  gave  it  a  twist,  it  was  discharged  straight 
into  Will  Glance's  eye.  He  died  instantly.  The  two 
women  saw  it  from  the  house,  and  came  running. 

They  both  said,  "  Oh,  father,  I  am  glad  it  is  not  you ! 
Oh,  Sam,  I  am  glad  it  is  not  you ! " 

"  He  shot  himself,"  said  Mr.  Hoskins. 

"Suicide,"  said  Sam. 

The  Avoinen  were  told  to  go  into  the  house,  as  it  would 
be  necessary  to  call  the  coroner.  After  they  were  gone 
Mr.  Hoskins  said,  "Remember,  Sarn,  we  tried  to  get 
the  pistol  so  he  could  not  shoot  himself,  you  know, 
Sam." 

"  I  know,"  said  Sam. 

"Remember,  Sam,  he  shot  the  first  time  at  me,  and 
then  killed  himself." 

"  Suicide,"  said  Sam. 

"Mind  and  tell  it  just  right." 

"Mr.  Hoskins,  I  shall  tell  just  as  little  as  I  can,  and  I 
shall  say  suicide,  sure." 

"  Now,  Sam,  you  stay  here  and  watch  the  body.  S'ay 
as  little  as  possible  to  anybody.  I  will  speak  an  earnest 
word  to  the  women  folks  in  the  house.  Then  I  will  jump 
on  a  horse  and  go  to  Dover  for  a  coroner.  I  will  send 
Mary  over  to  Mr.  Bartlett's  for  help." 

Mr.  Hoskins  had  gone.  Mr.  Bartlett  came,  and  soon 
after  the  coroner  arid  a  doctor. 

"Now,  Mr.  Hoskins,  just  tell  how  this  happened." 

Mr.  Hoskins  began.       "Mr.  Glance  was  quite  intoxi- 


134  THE  WILD  ARTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

cated  and  very  cross.  Mr.  Ellet  here  had  just  come  over 
and  was  asking  the  price  of  potatoes,  with  regard  to  dig- 
ging theirs,  when  Mr.  Glance  came  up  to  us  and  demand- 
ed that  I  should  pay  him  some  money.  I  had  already 
overpaid  him.  He  had  twenty  dollars  a  month  besides 
his  living.  I  did  not  think  it  safe  to  give  him  any  more 
to  buy  whiskey  with.  So  I  refused.  He  at  once  swore 
he  would  kill  Mr.  Ellet  and  me.  He  fired  that  large  pis- 
tol at  my  head,  and  just  missed  me.  Then  Sam  and  I 
tried  to  take  it  from  him,  but  he  turned  the  pistol  to 
his  own  head  and  fired  it." 

It  was  a  clear  case  of  suicide. 

The  doctor  said  that  the  story  was  evidently  true. 
The  coroner  picked  up  the  pistol  from  the  dead  man's 
hand.  Two  barrels  discharged.  Correct.  "  Now,  Mr. 
Ellet,  tell  your  story." 

"It  was  just  what  Mr.  Hoskins  told,"  said  Sam.  "It 
was  just  suicide.  And  what  he  wanted  to  do  it  for,  I 
don't  see.  If  he  had  not  been  drunk  he  would  not  have 
done  it." 

The  coroner  asked  Mrs.  Hoskins.  She  was  too  much 
overcome ;  she  could  only  groan,  and  utter  "  Suicide." 

Mary  said  the  same,  "  Just  suicide ;  and  why  he  did  it 
I  cannot  tell,  for  we  all  used  him  as  well  as  we  knew 
how." 

The  coroner  appeared  to  deliberate  a  moment.  Then 
he  announced,  that  as  there  was  nothing  in  doubt  about 
it,  all  the  evidence  went  to  show  that  the  deed  was  done 
with  his  own  pistol,  fired  with  his  own  hand ;  there  was 
no  need  to  summon  a  jury.  He  should  instruct  the 
undertaker  to  report,  that  William  Glance  died  by  pre- 
meditated suicide.  It  never  was  disputed. 


WILL  GLANCE   HAS   A  DKUNK.  135 

The  Hoskins  family  were  too  much  affected  to  talk 
much  about  it.  Sam  Ellet  knew  enough  to  keep  his 
mouth  shut.  He  had  good  common-sense.  Two  days 
later  Will  Glance  was  buried  in  a  small,  new  lot  in  Pine 
Hill  Cemetery,  in  Dover.  Mr.  Hoskins  told  Sam,  pri- 
vately, that  he  would  not  bury  his  carcass  in  the  Hoskins 
lot,  as  he  wanted  to  rest  quietly  there  himself,  by  and  by. 
Will  Glance's  mother  wept  some  for  him,  but  she  was  the 
only  one ;  and  she  wept  more  for  what  he  might  have 
been,  than  what  he  was.  Will  Glance  was  his  own  worst 
enemy.  He  did  not  live  to  see  his  son,  born  three  months 
later;  but  it  brought  a  ray  of  light  to  the  Hoskins  farm, 
where  the  shadows  had  been  long  and  dark.  Mr.  Bart- 
lett  wrote  his  account  to  Roy.  Sam  wrote  his.  Sam's 
was  peculiar,  and  Roy  got  an  impression  that  Sam  had 
adopted  Talleyrand's  theory,  that  language  was  a  medium 
for  concealing  ideas.  The  Dover  newspapers  told  the  story 
as  it  was  seen  to  be.  So  Roy  got  the  different  versions  of 
it,  and  made  his  own  conclusions.  He  knew  when  to  let 
well  enough  alone.  There  was  a  feeling  of  relief  wher- 
ever Will  Glance  was  known.  His  mother  seemed  less 
anxious,  went  out  more,  and  dressed  better.  Later  it  was 
ascertained  that  she  had  over  three  thousand  dollars,  that 
she  had  pretended  was  lost  in  settling  her  husband's 
estate  ;  and  she  had  been  dressing  poorly,  and  apparently 
living  on  her  brother,  to  keep  the  knowledge  of  any  prop- 
erty from  her  merciless,  dissipated  son.  He  had  a  plain 
white  marble  stone,  with  his  name,  age,  and  date.  Almost 
as  soon  as  the  stone  was  set,  some  one  had  written  the 
old  rhyme,  redolent  of  Tom  Paine,  but  adapted  to  the 
occasion,  — 


136  THE  WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

"Fooi-  Will  Glance,  here  he  lies, 
Nobody  laughs,  nobody  cries ; 
Where  he's  gone,  or  how  he  fares, 
Nobody  knows,  nobody  cares. 
One  thing  sart'in,  that's  a  fack, 
Nobody  wants  him  to  come  back." 

It  was  written  with  a  heavy  black-lead  pencil,  and  no- 
body rubbed  it  out.    Death,  is  not  so  bad  after  all. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

KOY    TAKES    A    STUDIO. 

AGAIN  it  was  the  first  of  October,  three  years  after  we 
first  met  Roy  Bartlett.  In  Lytlia  Maria  Child's  impos- 
sible, but  very  entertaining  story  of  Hilda  Silfverling,  she 
writes,  "  So  the  years  went  by,  and  the  earth  rolled  on 
bearing  with  it  the  Alps,  and  the  Ancles,  the  bear,  the 
wolf,  and  the  maiden."  So  it  has  borne  the  choice  spirits 
of  my  novel ;  and  even  later,  for  most  of  them  are 
splendidly  alive  and  smiling  to-day.  Roy  painted  a  good 
picture,  and  had  often  been  asked  to  give  lessons.  So  he 
rented  a  good  studio  on  Tremont  Street.  In  movement 
there  is  hope ;  in  stagnation  there  is  none.  He  fitted  it 
up  simply,  with  a  little  that  he  bought,  and  some  superflu- 
ous furniture  that  came  from  home.  He  hun«-  his 

O 

pictures,  and  they  made  a  good  show.  His  income  from 
his  real  estate  venture  would  support  him,  with  reason- 
able economy.  Then,  if  you  had  looked  in  the  Transcript, 
you  might  have  seen  for  two  months  the  announcement? 
Mr.  R.  Bartlett  will  receive  pupils  in  oil  painting  at  his 
studio,  Mather  Building,  Tremont  Street.  Pupils  came 
at  once,  nearly  all  ladies.  One  of  the  old  artists  said  he 
had  quite  a  harem.  Although  he  was  a  clean,  handsome 
young  man,  with  a  love  of  a  moustache,  yet,  strange  to 
say,  he  did  not  fool  or  flirt  with  women,  or  try  to  keep 
them  laughing.  Every  pupil  that  came  must  agree  to 

137 


138  THE   WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

work  their  best,  and  try  to  improve.  Some  took  one 
lesson  a  week,  some  two  or  three.  It  was  not  long  before 
he  had  twenty  pupils.  Pupils  came  forenoons.  The 
afternoon  he  had  for  work  or  company.  Company  was 
invited  every  afternoon.  He  sold  more  pictures.  One 
afternoon  there  came  a  knock  at  his  door;  a  young  lady 
wished  to  see  his  pictures.  She  was  welcomed.  He 
spoke  of  a  few  of  them,  without  specially  looking  at  her, 
when,  happening  to  catch  a  reflection  of  her  in  the  cheval 
class,  he  was  at  once  interested  in  his  visitor.  She  was 

<T5  ' 

two  inches  taller  than  the  Medicean  Venus,  and  many 
times  more  interesting.  She  looked  remarkably  good, 
and  was  remarkably  good-looking.  Her  ears  were  perfect, 
and  the  delicate  purity  of  her  neck  contrasted  with  the 
richness  of  her  golden-brown  hair.  Her  hands  were 
perfect,  —  Oh,  rarest  of  beauties  !  —  and  there  was  no- 
where about  her  a  sign  of  slavery,  mean  thinking,  or 
coarse  living.  She  asked  the  price  of  lessons.  One 
dollar  each.  She  said  she  was  living  with  her  uncle,  a 
retired  clergyman,  who  was  steward  of  an  estate,  which 
yielded  him  a  living,  and  was  likely  to  for  some  time  to 
come.  The  house  they  occupied  was  in  Commonwealth 
Avenue.  She  had  painted  some,  and  wished  to  improve 
so  that  she  could  paint  desirable  pictures,  and  teach,  if  it 
became  necessary  to  make  her  own  living.  Roy  said  he 
would  help  her  all  he  could.  It  was  a  good  thing  for  a 
woman  to  have  a  means  of  support/ for  often  resources 
failed,  then  she  was  not  left  helpless.  Her  name  was 
Miss  Graham.  She  said  the  establishment  that  her  uncle 
has  the  care  of  is  a  large  one.  There  is  a  fine  house,  well 
furnished.  There  are  some  servants,  that  are  to  be  cared 
for  and  retained.  There  is  a  carriage,  and  horses  that 


ROY  TAKES   A   STUDIO.  139 

are  to  be  used,  and  a  pew  in  church  that  may  be  occupied. 
So,  you  see,  since  my  uncle's  voice  failed,  so  he  could  not 
preach,  he  has  had  the  care  of  this  estate,  and  it  may 
continue  for  some  time  longer.  He  gets  a  good  living 
out  of  it,  and  has  saved  something.  He  has  no  children, 
and  no  heirs  but  me.  I  will  send  Fred,  our  servant, 
here  this  afternoon,  with  my  painting  materials.  Fred  is 
a  light  mulatto,  as  also  is  his  wife.  They  are  very  faith- 
ful, trusty  friends,  as  well  as  servants.  The  establishment 
pays  them  liberally.  Fred's  wife  is  Jenny.  She  is  an 
excellent  dressmaker,  so  that  saves  us  something.  I 
thought  it  best  to  tell  you  how  I  was  situated.  Here 
is  the  money  for  twelve  lessons.  I  am  to  carry  the 
receipt  to  my  uncle. 

Roy  did  not  wish  her  to  pay  in  advance,  but  she  replied, 
that  the  money  was  already  provided,  and  if  paid,  can- 
not be  lost.  Miss  Graham  selected  a  waterfall  to  copy, 
and  the  interview  was  over.  As  she  gave  her  parting 
salutation,  he  had  a  good  excuse  for  observing  her  criti- 
cally. His  pupils  were  gone  and  now  he  was  alone  in  his 
studio.  He  took  an  easy  chair  and  mused,  and  this  was 
his  thought.  Another  pupil  and  a  good  one.  I  am  doing 
well.  That  young  lady  is  sure  pay.  All  young  ladies  are. 
She  is  safe,  honest,  careful,  and  intends  to  be  efficient. 
Too  bad  that  she  is  poor.  I  hated  to  take  her  money.  She 
was  well  dressed  but  plain,  still  it  was  very  pretty  and  very 
becoming.  Pure  honest  eyes.  I  hope  her  uncle  and  aunt 
will  save  a  dollar,  so  they  will  not  have  to  depend  upon 
her.  If  she  gets  short  of  money  I  may  be  called  upon  by 
myself,  not  her,  to  help  her.  Well,  well.  There  are 
some  white  souls  in  the  world,  thank  heaven.  Pity  she 
is  an  orphan.  But  let  that  go  now,  and  perhaps  good 


140  THE  WILD  AETIST  IN   BOSTON. 

help  may  come  by  her  uncle.  When  Roy  had  finished 
his  musing,  he  arose  and  put  the  room  to  rights,  ready 
for  the  morning  campaign.  Then  a  walk,  which  ended 
at  the  house  of  Warren,  and  brought  the  wild  artist  to 
the  supper  table,  and  the  pleasant  society  of  three  ladies. 
The  supper  was  what  it  always  was,  abundance.  Roy 
helped  the  ladies,  to  such  as  they  preferred,  while  each 
gave  assistance. 

Said  Mrs.  Warren,  "  I  like  to  have  the  first  course  all 
on  the  table  at  once,  where  it  is  only  a  small  number  like 
ours.  Of  course  it  would  not  be  practicable  in  a  large 
family  or  at  a  hotel,  where  there  were  waiters.  But  here 
we  need  not  be  obliged  to  let  a  servant  choose  our  food 

O 

for  us.  There  is  more  liberty,  and  we  can  have  our  choice 
of  fat  or  lean,  rare  or  well  done,  all  the  time.  Here  we 
can  have  just  what  suits." 

Said  Roy,  "  You  have  one  custom  that  I  like  very 
much.  Your  dinner  always  has  its  first  course  of  soup. 
If  one  has  no  appetite,  soup  will  almost  create  one. 
Something  warm,  perhaps  high  seasoned,  like  broth  with 
a  little  red  pepper  in  it,  will  arouse  a  sleepy  stomach,  and 
prepare  the  way  for  a  fine  meal.  Once  a  prime  minister 
of  England  had  invited  four  noble  lords  to  dine  with  him. 
They  came  on  time.  The  minister  sent  word  that  he  was 
detained  by  an  audience  with  the  king.  They  waited. 
Other  messengers  came.  He  was  still  detained.  More 
than  two  mortal  hours  passed  and  the  dinner  waited. 
Then  the  speed  of  his  carriage  was  heard  and  the  minis- 
ter came  in.  I  know  how  you  feel,  said  he.  He  gave  a 
servant  an  order,  while  the  dinner  was  served,  and  he 
mixed  the  five  hungry  men,  a  dose  of  something  hot  and 
strong,  which  was  immediately  followed  by  a  mullaga- 


ROY   TAKES   A   STUDIO.  141 

tawny  soup.  Then  came  the  roast  and  the  famine  was 
over.  It  was  a  splendid  dinner.  A  man's  best  friend  is 
his  stomach.  It  supplies  the  motive  power  and  is  the 
boiler  of  the  engine.  A  physician  once  said,  a  man  ought 
not  to  be  conscious  that  he  had  a  stomach." 

Said  Miss  Emily,  "I  think  men  enjoy  the  pleasures  of 
food  more  than  women." 

"Yes,"  said  Roy,  "they  have  stronger  appetites. 
When  a  woman  wants  labor  done  she  expects  a  man  to 
do  it.  He  makes  the  roads,  tills  the  land,  builds  and 
runs  the  railroads,  builds  the  houses,  and  of  course,  needs 
a  pile  of  fuel  to  sustain  the  wear  and  tear.  So  he 
eats." 

"But,"  said  Miss  Sarah,  "  women  work." 

"  Most  certainly.  The  men  sustain  the  world  and  the 
women  sustain  the  men.  For  a  general  truth  that  is  not 
far  out  of  the  way." 

Said  Mrs.  Warren,  "  I  am  glad,  Mr.  Bartlett,  that  you 
do  not  take  pleasure  in  saying  spicy,  paradoxical,  and 
cutting  things  about  women." 

Said  he,  "  Indeed  I  do  not,  and  how  could  I  after  all 
the  women  I  have  ever  known,  and  this  almost  without 
exception.  If  they  knew  my  opinion  of  them,  as  com- 
pared with  their  nearest  male  friend,  they  would  give  me 
credit  for  a  most  generous  opinion.  Of  course,  we  are 
all  human.  But  where  women  have  faults  men  have 
vices.  Women  are  provoking  where  men  are  villainous. 
But  all  the  women  that  I  have  known,  have  made  it  a  joy 
to  do  them  a  service,  at  least,  where  it  can  be  done  easily. 
So  if  I  find  a  nice  young  lady  hanging  upon  a  hook,  it  is 
always  a  pleasure  to  me  to  help  her  down." 

The  ladies  laughed  at  the  application  of  Roy's  theory. 


142  THE  WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

When  the  second  course  was  served,  Mrs.  Warren 
asked,  "Mr.  Bartlett,  can  you  cook?" 

"Oh,  yes,  meats  generally,  and  vegetables.  I  have 
made  bread  and  some  pastry,  but  not  much.  I  think  it 
well  for  a  man  to  be  able  to  help  at  home,  in  case  of  an 
emergency.  In  these  days  of  uncertain  servants,  nobody 
knows  what  may  happen."  Said  Roy,  "Let  me  tell  you 
something.  Not  long  since  I  met  one  of  my  own  teachers. 
She  never  would  tell  her  age.  But  she  would  tell  that 
her  father  died  when  she  was  fifteen  years  old,  and  a 
little  later  she  told  in  what  year  her  father  died.  Some 
rainy  day  I  am  going  to  get  out  my  slate  and  pencil  and 
figure  up  her  age." 

They  laughed,  and  the  ladies  said  they  should  have  to 
look  out  for  him.  They  adjourned  to  the  parlor.  It  was 
Thursday  evening  and  company  came.  Mr.  Stacy  and 
some  lady  teachers.  They  talked  of  subjects,  not  of  per- 
sons. That  is  gossip.  Educated  people  prefer  subjects. 
It  is  abstract  thought. 

Said  Mr.  Stacy,  "How  is  your  art  prospering,  Mr. 
Bartlett?" 

"Very  well,  thank  you.  I  am  selling  some  pictures 
and  having  a  fair  amount  of  pupils.  Doing  better  than  I 
expected." 

Said  Mrs.  Warren,  "Are  there  not  desirable  people 
among  your  artist  friends  and  pupils,  that  you  would  like 
to  invite  here  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  it,"  he  answered. 

"  Then  please  do.  I  have  the  room.  My  parlors  are 
very  large,  and  I  can  stand  the  wear  of  the  carpets  and 
furniture.  Now,  Mr.  Bartlett,  let  us  have  a  reception 
twice  a  month,  on  Thursday  evenings.  You  invite  only 


ROY  TAKES   A   STUDIO.  143 

suitable  people  whom  you  know,  and  fill  up  the  parlors. 
We  can  stop  if  we  do  not  like  it.  Sarah  can  play,  Mr. 
Bartlett  and  Mr.  Stacy  can  read." 

"I  agree  to  it,"  said  Roy.  "But  let  us  have  no  organ- 
ization and  no  society  with  officers.  Small  societies  con- 
sume all  their  time  doing  unimportant  business.  Call  it 
simply  the  Art  Coterie." 

They  all  agreed,  and  the  programme  was  left  to  Roy 
and  the  Misses  Warren.  The  company  made  sugges- 
tions. They  could  have  music,  Shakespeare,  literature, 
song  or  story,  sociable  or  sermon,  and  those  who  do  not 
like  it,  need  not  come  again.  It  was  agreed  unanimously. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE    ART    COTERIE    IS    LAUNCHED. 

THE  next  morning  Mr.  Royal  Bartlett  descended  from 
the  sacred  precincts  of  Beacon  hill,  feeling  light,  airy,  and 
gay.  He  was  conscious  of  a  reasonable  amount  of  green- 
backs in  his  pocket,  of  plenty  of  the  most  agreeable  work 
to  do,  and  an  abundance  of  the  best  companionship  to  en- 
joy. Father  Taylor  once  said  that  he  used  to  consider 
Boston  hill  a  little  nearer  heaven  than  any  other  place. 
Here  was  Roy  in  Boston.  He  had  not  an  enemy  in  the 
world.  The  only  one  he  ever  had,  a  child  of  the  devil, 
who  hated  Roy  without  a  cause,  had  ju^t  shot  himself 
dead.  It  was  out  of  Roy's  mind.  There  were  no  outs 
about  his  life.  Plenty  of  friends,  and  most  true.  No 
critics  that  he  knew  of.  If  any  critic  had  sought  to  find 
a  case  against  him,  that  case  would  not  have  had  a  leg  to 
stand  on.  Make  it  too  sweet?  No,  I  do  not.  There  are 
plenty  of  white  souls  that  walk  in  the  light  of  God  and 
the  love  of  man.  I  know  plenty  of  them,  and  some  of 
them  are  coming  into  this  book  later.  Take  a  look  at 
Roy  as  he  takes  his  morning  walk  through  the  Public  Gar- 
den and  across  the  Common.  If  you  do  not  like  him,  go 
down  to  the  frog  pond  and  drown  yourself.  Roy  put  the 
finishing  touches  on  a  picture,  and  hung  it  high,  out  of 
the  reach  of  hands,  where  it  might  dry.  Fred  Annerly, 
the  mulatto,  Miss  Graham's  servant,  came  with  her  easel, 

144 


THE   ART    COTERIE   IS    LAUNCHED.  145 

paint-box,  and  canvases.  Fred  was  light  for  a  mulatto, 
and  Roy  thought  he  might  be  more  white  than  colored. 
He  was  very  pleasant  and  gentlemanly.  He  and  his  wife 
had  been  bom  slaves,  but  they  were  free  enough  now. 
Soon  Miss  Graham  arrived.  She  placed  her  easel  in 
what  Roy  called  fine  light,  and  he  said  it  might  remain 
there,  and  she  could  work  at  other  times  when  she  was 
not  taking  her  lesson,  and  no  charge  for  it.  A  few  direc- 
tions were  given  as  to  what  colors  to  use  in  the  sky,  how 
to  lay  it  in,  and  to  call  for  help  when  she  wanted  it.  Miss 
Graham  went  to  work.  Other  pupils  came  in.  That 
forenoon  he  had  seven  at  once,  all  he  wanted  to  attend  to. 
When  it  was  near  noon,  Roy  called  their  attention.  He 
said,  "Ladies,  I  have  something  to  tell  you  that  may  in- 
terest you.  There  are  a  few  of  us  that  have  met  on  alter- 
nate Thursday  evenings,  for  social  entertainment.  No 
refreshments.  No  fancy  dress  and  no  expense.  The  lady 
of  the  house  has  kindly  asked  me  to  invite  my  pupils  and 
friends.  But  they  must  be  only  .suitable  people.  I 
should  not  dare  to  ask  a  man  who  was  flavored  with  to- 
bacco. First,  I  will  begin  with  inviting  all  my  pupils. 
Each  can  take  one  other  as  escort,  if  necessary.  We 
have  very  large  double  parlors,  really  a  fine  large  draw- 
ing-room, a  magnificent  piano,  a  music  teacher  in  the 
house,  and  several  talented  readers  and  speakers  who  will 
come.  But  all  will  be  informal.  No  ceremony;  just 
simple  and  enjoyable.  Now,  ladies,  will  you  come?" 

They  said  "  yes,"  every  one. 

"  Please  tell  me  who  reads  or  recites.  Who  plays  any 
instrument  ?  Who  sings  ?  " 

"  One  lady  read  when  she  was  needed.  Miss  Graham 
played  the  piano,  and  had  been  known  to  sing." 


146  THE   WILD   ARTIST  IN   BOSTON. 

"  Have  you  played  much  ?  "  asked  Roy. 
"Yes,  considerably.     I  have  had  many  piano  lessons 
from   Mr.  Petersilea,   and   lessons   in  singing   from  Mr. 
Lyman  Wheeler." 

"  Then  I  will  risk  you  to  sing,"  said  Roy,  "  and  it  is 
fortunate  that  I  asked  you.  If  you  will  bring  a  piece  of 
music,  not  too  short  or  too  long,  a  piece  that  you  like 
yourself,  and  also  a  song,  it  will  be  a  splendid  contribu- 
tion, and  we  will  all  consider  it  a  good  beginning." 

Miss  Graham  said  she  would  remain  longer,  and  paint 
awhile  in  the  afternoon.  She  did.  When  her  day's 
work  was  finished,  Roy  was  satisfied  that  she  had  laid  in 
the  picture  so  well,  that  he  might  have  to  scratch  forward 
or  the  pupil  would  be  equal  to  the  teacher.  At  any  rate, 
she  could  give  lessons  now,  and  would  not  be  left  help- 
less in  case  her  uncle  should  die  or  lose  his  stewardship. 
That  was  a  cause  for  thankfulness.  Roy  wanted  a  light 
lunch,  but  he  first  made  a  call.  High  up  in  his  own  stu- 
dio building  was  an  artist,  Mr.  Frank  Wilkie,  a  man  past 
thirty,  a  good  painter,  but  a  man  who  used  strong  stimu- 
lants. Roy  knocked  at  the  dooi-.  He  heard  a  strong 
voice  say,  "come  in."  Mr.  Wilkie  was  seated  in  an  old- 
fashioned  chair,  and  looking  far  from  cheerful.  "  How 
are  you,  Frank  ?  " 

"  All  wrong.  I  should  be  well  enough  if  I  had  any 
luck.  I  have  not  taken  a  dollar  for  a  week  and  I  am  all 
r.un  ashore.  I  should  not  tell  every  one,  but  I  tell  you, 
Roy." 

"Well,"  said  Roy,  "I  can  help  a  little.  I  was  just 
wanting  a  lesson  from  you  and  here  is  a  dollar  for  it.  I 
will  go  out  to  lunch  and  you  must  go  with  me.  Then  we 
will  come  back  and  I  will  take  a  canvas  that  I  have  and 


THE   ART   COTERIE  IS  LAUNCHED.  147 

watch  you  while  you  paint,  for  an  hour  or  two,  you  to  tell 
me  your  colors  and  methods,  and  I  to  sponge  all  the  art  I 
can  out  of  you,  in  a  given  time,  and  have  the  picture  be- 
side. Do  you  consent?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Wilkie,  "  anything  for  a  dinner,  a  dollar, 
and  to  oblige  Benson." 

Roy  led  the  way  down  to  the  Quincy  Market,  where 
the  eating-houses  are,  that  keep  the  market-men  so  fat. 
Places  there  where  they  do  not  live  by  bread  alone,  but 
where  they  get  the  best  the  world  affords,  and  oh,  such 
meat,  the  biggest,  fattest,  richest,  tenderest,  juiciest  cuts. 
And  a  man  goes  away  plumb-full,  although  he  was  hollow 
away  down  to  his  heels.  Roy  had  not  lived  in  Boston 
for  nothing,  for  when  Sam  Eilet  had  been  in  the  city  with 
Roy,  they  had  fully  celebrated  the  three  great  feasts  of 
the  Jews,  namely  :  breakfast,  dinner,  and  supper.  So  Roy 
led  the  way  to  a  light,  pleasant  room,  up  one  flight,  near 
the  market. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Blanchard.  Can  you  give  us  two 
nice  tenderloin  steaks,  well  done?" 

"I  can  just  do  it,  Mr.  Bartlett." 

It  came.  Then  two  cups  of  coffee  with  potatoes,  warm 
biscuit  and  butter,  and  condiments  galore.  It  was  a 
great,  big,  wide  steak,  tender  and  juicy,  and  thick  as  your 
foot.  But  that  depends.  It  was  enough  for  a  man-o'- 
war's-man,  or  one  of  Jim  Camel's  amazons. 

"  There,"  said  Roy,  "  that  ought  to  stay  your  stomach, 
until  you  can  get  around  to  some  hearty  victuals." 

That  fancy  seemed  to  chirk  Wilkie  up  mightily,  but  it 
did  not  spoil  his  appetite.  Each  attacked  his  steak  in 
less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell  of  it,  and  soon  the  relative 
condition  was  the  same  as  when  the  lion  and  the  lamb 


148  THE  WILD  AETIST   IN   BOSTON. 

lay  down  together :  the  lamb  was  inside  the  lion.     "  Have 
a  piece  of  pudding  or  pie  ?  "  asked  Roy. 

"Yes,  if  you  please.  About  next  week,  I  guess. 
Couldn't  do  it  much  sooner.  Oliver  W.  H.  says,  — 

"  Three  courses  are  as  good  as  ten. 
If  nature  can  subsist  on  three, 
Thank  heaven  for  three,  amen." 

Jess  so,  as  William  Warren  says.  But  my  experience 
tells  me  that  one  course  has  the  breath  of  life  in  it,  if  it  is 
good  enough,  and  there  is  enough  of  it.  So  I  make  no 
mistake,  nor  degrade  these  two  artist  gentlemen,  by 
making  them  stub  along  on  one.  Then  by  special  request, 
Mr.  Wilkie  painted  in  Roy's  studio  all  the  afternoon, 
Roy  gave  him  another  dollar  and  they  were  both  suited. 
Frank  Wilkie  was  a  generous,  improvident  fellow.  It  is 
good  to  be  generous  at  times,  but  there  is  much  to  be  said 
on  the  other  side.  The  generous  man  helps  people  gen- 
erously, and  he  often  needs  to  be  helped  generously  in 
return.  But  the  mean  man,  the  man  that  is  not  half 
generous  enough,  wins.  He  always  pays  his  debts,  you 
can  come  down  on  his  property  if  he  does  not  do  it.  He 
must  do  it.  The  generous  man  can't  and  don't  pay.  He 
lives  freely.  When  he  has  anything  he  goes  through  it. 
He  has  nothing  and  you  can  get  nothing.  When  he  has 
a  streak  of  luck,  he  treats  a  squad  of  non-combatants,  to 
a  champagne  supper,  and  then,  when  he  is  clean  busted, 
he  blows  up  his  wife  because  the  milk  bill  is  so  large. 
The  generous  man  wants  you  to  sign  a  note  with  him  or 
be  his  bondsman  for  a  large  sum.  He  says  you  won't  have 
it  to  pay.  You  can  catch  a  bear  real  easy,  but  you  need 
plenty  of  help  to  let  go  of  him.  The  mean  man  signs 


THE   ART   COTERIE   IS   LAUNCHED.  149 

nothing,  you  can't  get  him  to.  The  assessors  hate  him, 
and  he,  very  properly,  returns  the  compliment.  The  gen- 
erous man  pays  a  poll-tax,  when  he  can  put  it  off  no  long- 
er without  going  to  jail.  His  wife  looks  shabby  and  is 
worried  about  what  will  come  next.  The  mean  man's 
wife  has  good  clothes,  heavy  warm  shawls  and  wraps, 
and  takes  care  of  them.  She  has  a  house  full  of  every- 
thing, so  she  does  not  worry,  or  care  a  continental  what 
happens.  The  generous  man's  children  ought  to  go  to 
school  more,  but  they  can't.  The  mean  man's  children 
go  enough,  and  they  do  not  neglect  their  arithmetic,  if 
they  do  their  grammar.  If  the  mean  man's  "darter" 
wants  to  take  lessons  in  "  ile  paintin' "  she  can  do  it,  and 
you  ought  to  see  the  pictiires.  The  generous  man's  wife, 
oh,  so  sweet  and  beautiful  when  she  was  married,  grows 
lean  and  old  before  her  time,  she  suffers  and  is  neglected. 
She  dies  all  too  soon  and  is  buried  in  coarse  gravel.  She 
has  no  gravestones.  Her  children  are  divided  up  among 
people  that  do  not  want  them.  The  mean  man  and  his 
wife  both  live  to  wear  out  several  sets  of  store  teeth. 
Their  children  marry  well-to-do  folks  in  the  vicinity,  and 
all  do  well.  The  mean  man  gets  fat  and  his  wife  gets 
fleshy.  He  has  the  phthisic  and  she  the  asthma.  Both 
live  to  be  outrageously  old,  and  die  full  of  years  and 
things.  Silver  handles  on  their  coffins  a  foot  long. 
Graves  in  yellow  loam.  They  leave  fifty  dollars  to 
foreign  missions.  Gravestones  six  inches  thick,  of  splendid 
Italian  marble,  for  the  birds  to  roost  on.  I  do  not  know 
what  becomes  of  the  generous  man.  I  think  he  runs 
away  with  a  medium,  or  something.  He  is  always  giving 
himself  away.  You  may  not  believe  all  this,  but  I  do,  I 
almost  think. 


150  THE   WILD  ARTIST  IN   BOSTON. 

The  next  day  Roy  had  the  chagrin  to  know  that  Frank 
Wilkie  was  shut  in  his  studio,  drunk.  It  cut  him  up  to 
know  that  so  good  an  artist  could  be  such  a  fool.  Roy 
made  some  calls  in  the  studios,  and,  as  he  was  always 
free  to  welcome  others,  so  they  smiled  back  at  him. 
Honey  catches  flies;  vinegar  is  not  so  popular.  There 
was  hardly  a  room  in  his  building  where  he  was  not 
known.  A  man  cannot  paint  ten  hours  a  day,  except  it 
be  on  a  house  or  fence,  which  commonly  does  not  strain 
his  intellect  very  much.  So  an  artist  refreshes  himself  by 
a  call,  and  returns  with  fresh  eyes  for  color,  and  more  go 
in  his  imagination.  Besides,  it  is  refreshing  to  know 
what  a  gaby  another  artist  is  making  of  himself,  in  his 
frantic  efforts  to  be  original.  Oh,  there  is  a  comfort,  one 
way  or  another,  —  either  in  the  art  in  your  own  pictures, 
or  the  want  of  it  in  another's. 

Roy's  pupils  did  well  for  him.  They  learned  well. 
Miss  Graham  worked  several  hours  each  day.  Several 
days  in  the  week  she  helped  Roy  in  caring  for  Lis  pupils. 
She  brought  him  two  pupils,  that  each  paid  him  twelve 
dollars  in  advance.  If  he  wished  to  go  out,  she  cared 
for  the  studio,  and  taught  the  pupils.  She  "was  an  acqui- 
sition. Her  finished  pictures  increased  in  number.  Fred 
carried  four  home,  which  were  disposed  of.  Roy  con- 
gratulated her.  Her  pictures  were  good.  Then  came 
the  evening  of  the  Art  Coterie.  It  was  a  fine  evening. 
Roy  had  invited  many  of  the  artists,  but  not  Frank 
Wilkie,  or  any  like  him.  The  rooms  were  well  filled  and 
comfortable.  There  was  an  intermission,  and  all  were 
asked  to  change  their  seats,  so  as  to  have  no  wall-flowers. 
Some  were  standing. 

When  Roy  called  the  company  to  order,  he  said:  "The 


THE   ART   COTERIE   IS   LAUNCHED.  151 

lady  of  the  house  and  her  daughters  have  given  me  per- 
mission to  invite  pupils  and  friends  to  an  informal  social 
gathering.  If  the  guests  are  pleased  with  this,  there  may 
be  others.  There  will  be  no  bills  to  pay,  and  it  is  only 
that  we  may  be  happier  by  entertaining  and  knowing 
each  other.  There  is  plenty  of  talent  here,  and  I  have 
arranged  to  call  upon  several.  First,  a  musical  selection 
by  Miss  Sarah  Warren." 

It  was  splendidly  done.  One  part  strong  and  grand, 
with  all  the  power  of  the  instrument ;  another  light, 
airy,  intricate,  and  sweet  as  the  song  of  a  bobolink. 
Henry  F.  Miller  was  there,  and  heard  his  piano  played  as 
he  liked  it,  and  Miss  Sarah  won  a  storm  of  applause. 
What  an  addition  an  accomplishment  is  to  a  human 
life. 

Roy  spoke  again :  "  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  in  the  old 
convivial  times,  when  they  met  together,  each  one  was 
expected  to  do  what  he  could  to  entertain  the  company. 
He  might'  tell  a  story,  sing  a  song,  or  treat  the  company. 
I  will  tell  you  a  story.  It  is  of  '  The  artist  that  lived  at 
Capri.'  It  is  a  story  that  Virgil  Williams  told  me. 
He  knew  the  artist,  and  was  with  him  a  long  time  in 
Italy." 

There  was  an  English  squire,  rich,  aristocratic,  and 
with  sons  and  daughters.  The  youngest  son  was 
inclined  to  art.  His  father  wanted  him  to  go  into  the 
army,  the  navy,  or  the  church.  He  wanted  neither.  He 
would  not  be  a  soldier,  he  hated  a  sea  life,  and  he  had  no 
call  to  the  church.  So  he  learned  to  paint  from  Nature. 
He  kept  studying  until  he  was  a  fine  artist,  and  could  sell 
his  pictures.  He  travelled  in  Scotland  and  Wales.  Then 
he  went  up  the  Rhine.  He  worked  in  Switzerland, 


152  THE  WILD   AETIST   IN   BOSTON. 

making  sketches  and  getting  photographs  and  stereo- 
scopics.  Lastly  he  travelled  the  Cornische  road,  sketch- 
ing faithfully  until  he  came  to  Rome  and  Naples.  He 
painted  in  Loth  cities.  He  met  his  fate  in  a  beautiful 
Italian  girl.  He  was  a  handsome  fellow,  and  the  usual 
result  followed.  They  were  married.  He  sold  many 
pictures,  and  made  money.  Then  he  took  his  wife  and 
went  to  England.  He  arrived  in  the  afternoon  at  his 

O 

father's  house.  He  introduced  his  wife  to  his  father  and 
mother.  His  wife  was  well  dressed,  virtuous,  honorable, 
and  very  handsome.  He  took  supper  with  the  family, 
and  stayed  all  night.  He  breakfasted  with  the  family. 
After  breakfast  his  father  asked  him  to  go  into  the  garden 
with  him.  They  went,  but  did  not  go  far. 

Said  his  father,  "  I  do  not  want  that  woman  here.  I 
want  you  to  take  her  away  to-day.  If  you  go  to  Australia, 
I  will  allow  you  one  hundred  pounds  a  year;  or  you  may  •go 
to  India,  and  I  will  allow  you  one  hundred  pounds  a  year; 
or  you  may  go  and  live  on  one  of  the  islands  up  the  Medi- 
terranean, and  I  will  allow  you  a  hundred  pounds  a  year; 
either  of  these  three,  and  a  hundred  a  year;  or  you  may 
go  to  the  devil  and  have  nothing.  But  I  want  you  to 
leave  here  to-day,  leave  England  soon,  and  take  that 
woman  away  from  here  at  once.  Now  which  will 
YOU  do?" 

He  answered,  "  I  will  live  on  one  of  the  islands  in  the 
Mediterranean."  It  was  a  savage  piece  of  business ;  but 
"it  is  English,  you  know." 

He  left  his  home  that  forenoon,  went  to  London,  Paris, 
Geneva,  Rome,  Naples.  He  took  his  time  about  it. 
After  looking  about  him  well,  and  consulting  his  wife,  for 
she  was  prudent  as  well  as  handsome,  and  she  had  no 


THE   ART   COTEEIE  IS   LAUNCHED.  153 

notion  of  losing  five  hundred  dollars  a  year  when  she 
could  get  it  from  the  people  who  had  used  her  so  mean : 
he  bought,  for  a  small  sum,  a  nice  house  on  the  island 
of  Capri.  He  enlarged  it,  and  made  a  villa  of  it,  with 
gardens  around  it.  It  is  in  a  high  and  beautiful  place, 
with  the  most  splendid  views  of  Vesuvius,  the  coast,  and 
the  sea.  Virgil  Williams  stayed  at  his  home  and  painted 
with  him.  Everything  is  cheap  at  Capri,  and  he  lived 
like  a  nabob.  His  wife  was  as  handsome  as  ever,  and 
much  respected.  Mr.  Williams  said  the  children  of  the 
blond  Englishman  and  the  brunette  Italian  were  as 
beautiful  as  he  ever  saw.  As  he  owned  his  own  home, 
he  could  entertain  the  best  of  company,  and  sell  his  pict- 
ures before  they  were  dry.  He  had  boxes  prepared,  so 
he  could  enclose  them  before  the  paint  was  set.  He  had 
all  the  fine  views  of  Vesuvius,  Naples,  Sorrento,  and  the 
coast.  Every  one  who  had  any  money  at  all,  was  glad  to 
buy  a  souvenir  of  Capri  and  the  artist.  He  also  got 
orders  from  England. 

"  And  his  bank  account  grew, 

His  good  wife  was  true, 
His  children  were  splendid,  as  ever  you  knew ; 

The  climate  was  fine, 

The  scenery  divine, 
His  garden  with  sweetest  of  flowers  did  shine  ; 

He  lived  happy  and  free, 

And  you  never  will  see 
Such  a  joy  as  the  artist  that  lived  at  Capri." 

Hoy  made  his  best  bow,  and  the  general  "  stoop  en 
tumble  "  of  the  whole  thing  pleased  the  company  hugely. 
It  was  such  a  picture,  so  good  a  picture,  and  so  many  pict- 


154  THE  WILD   AKTIST  IN   BOSTON. 

ures.  Alas !  that  we  shall  not  see  Virgil  Williams,  or 
hear  his  stories  again  here. 

Roy  announced  a  selection  for  the  piano,  by  Miss 
Graham.  It  was  a  surprise  and  every  way  a  success.  It 
showed  the  finest  taste  and  cultivation,  and  was  well 
approved. 

A  gentleman  told  another  story:  —  An  artist  was  at 
work,  when  a  knock  announced  visitors.  Ladies  came  in. 
He  showed  them  his  pictures,  and  entertained  his  com- 
pany. Above  the  line  of  paintings  was  a  fine  old  en- 
graving of  the  leaning  tower  of  Pisa.  One  of  the  women 
looked  at  it  critically.  Ah,  said  she,  Minot's  light?  Yes, 
marm,  said  the  artist,  as  he  turned  away  to  hide  his  emo- 
tion. Another  anecdote,  also  a  fact,  the  author  vouches 
for  it.  An  artist  was  in  a  second-hand  furniture  store, 
looking  at  stray  pictures.  Among  others  was  a  colored 
chromo  of  the  State  Street  massacre,  with  Crispus  Attucks, 
just  falling,  shot,  in  the  foreground.  The  owner  said, 
buy  that ;  it  is  cheap.  It  is  true,  too.  The  real  thing. 
Real  history.  Corpus  Christi  was  killed  in  State  Street. 
This  will  be  news  to  most  folks.  The  artist  was  much 
affected  by  it. 

The  chairman  called  on  Miss  Graham  for  a  song. 
After- a  short  prelude  she  sang  : 

THE  BIRD'S   LOVE   SONG. 

"  A  bright  bird  of  morning  his  love  song  was  singing 
To  his  mate,  on  their  nest,  in  the  leafy  green  spray ; 
And  he  poured  forth  his  joy  in  such  melody  ringing, 
That  my  soul  answered  back  all  his  beautiful  lay. 
Oh,  sing,  happy  birdie !  Oh,  beautiful  birdie, 
The  echoes  exultingly  bear  it  along ; 
Oh,  sing,  happy  birdie,  Oh,  beautiful  birdie, 
For  love  is  the  joy  of  your  beautiful  song. 


THE   AKT   COTERIE    IS    LAUNCHED.  155 

"Then  blest  be  your  sweet  home,  and  peaceful  your  slumbers, 
Where  love  builds  your  nest  in  the  leafy  green  tree ; 
Let  love  be  the  joy  that  inspires  your  blest  numbers, 
And  sing  it,  sweet  birdie,  Oh,  sing  it  to  me. 
Oh,  sing,  happy  birdie,  Oh,  beautiful  birdie, 
The  echoes  exultingly  bear  it  along ; 
Oh,  sing,  happy  birdie,  Oh,  beautiful  birdie, 
For  love  is  the  joy  of  your  beautiful  song. 

"  Then  love,  pretty  birdie,  and  tell  your  true  story; 
And  waft  your  sweet  notes  to  the  songsters  above, 
And  mingle  your  songs  with  the  angels  in  glory, 
While  heaven  echoes  back  the  sweet  music  of  love. 
Then  sing,  happy  birdie,  Oh,  beautiful  birdie, 
The  echoes  exultingly  bear  it  along ; 
Oh,  sing,  happ3r  birdie,  Oh,  beautiful  birdie,' 
For  love  is  the  joy  of  your  beautiful  song." 

Indeed,  an  English  skylark  could  not  have  sung  sweeter. 
Miss  Graham  was  rewarded  as  she  should  be. 

After  some  select  readings,  Roy  called  for  "  Auld  Lang 
Syne." 

Before  it  could  be  given,  Mr.  Cobb  expressed  his  grati- 
fication in  a  telling,  witty  speech,  which  took  finely. 

Roy  said,  "  The  notice  of  the  Art  Coterie  will  be  posted 
on  my  studio  door.  As  there  is  a  large  delegation  from 
the  Handel  and  Haydn  society  here,  it  follows  that  we 
can  sing.  Miss  Sarah  Warren  will  please  take  the  piano  ; 
Mr.  Webb,  the  baton.  Sing  one  double  stanza,  and  repeat 
if  Mr.  Webb  orders  it."  They  sang  it  gloriously.  Miss 
Warren  put  in  a  dainty  interlude,  and  Webb  led  on. 
When  the  full  harmony  of  the  glorious  refrain,  that 
Jessie  Brown  heard  at  Lucknow,  died  away,  there  was 
a  clapping  of  a  hundred  pairs  of  hands,  outside,  in  the 
street.  It  was  too  much  harmony  to  pass  unnoticed. 


156  THE  WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

The  Art  Coterie  broke  up,  the  young  men  and  maidens 
paired  off,  and  Mr.  Bartlett  was  about  to  see  if  Miss 
Graham  had  company  home,  when  Fred  Annerly  appeared 
at  the  door  and  asked  for  her.  She  came  with  another 
lady,  older  than  herself.  Roy  was  introduced  to  her. 
He  saw  their  carriage  near,  and  Fred  Annerly  acting  as 
footman.  He  assisted  them  in,  and  the  evening  was 
done.  The  Warrens  were  well  pleased,  and  so  was  every 
one.  The  next  day,  Roy  had  no  end  of  congratulations. 
It  was  not  long  before  he  had  more  pupils.  It  never 
rains  but  it  pours.  Miss  Graham  received  Roy's  most 
hearty  commendation.  She  seemed  pleased.  She  was 
good  help  to  him  in  teaching  his  pupils,  and  somehow  she 
seemed  to  be  a  new  white  light  in  his  life.  But  he  did 
not  suspect  what  it  was. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

A   DISTURBING    ELEMENT. 

MARY  GLANCE,  whom  I  shall  call  by  her  maiden  name, 
Mary  Iloskins,  lived  quietly  with  her  father  and  mother. 
The  family  were  well,  but  kept  mostly  at  home.  Mr. 
Iloskins  kept  no  help,  so  of  course  he  could  not  do  much 
farming.  Mary's  boy  was  near  two  years  old.  At  first 
he  was  a  thin,  pale  little  fellow,  and  well  he  might  be,  for 
he  was  the  child  of  fury  and  fear.  But  as  he  grew,  and 
the  disturbing  prenatal  influences  lost  their  power  in  a 
mother's  love,  he  grew  stronger  and  handsomer.  He  was 
like  his  mother  and  her  progenitors.  Boys  usually  are. 
He  clung  to  her  mostly,  going  but  little  even  to  Mary's 
parents.  His  paternal  grandmother  came  to  see  him  and 
tried  to  pet  him,  but  he  did  not  take  to  dark  complexions 
Little  Walter  was  a  good  child  and  a  comfort  to  his 
mother.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bartlett  called  often  at  the  Hos- 
kins  farm,  and  when  they  were  out,  Sam  Ellet  managed 
to  be  at  home,  as  major  domo,  and  company  for  Canis 
Major  and  Grimalkin.  But  the  Bartletts  were  in  love 
with  their  home,  and,  as  they  had  some  company  to  come 
in  occasionally,  Sam  had  some  time  to  make  calls,  and  he 
used  to  neighbor  with  the  Hoskiris  family.  He  pitied 
Mary  for  her  sorrow,  and  the  baby  began  to  smile  and 
play  with  Sam.  About  twice  a  week  he  was  there,  and 
the  Hoskins  family  grew  brighter  under  the  sunshine  of 

157 


158  THE  WILD   ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

Sam's  visits.  After  supper  and  the  chores  were  done,  he 
remarked  that  lie  would  take  a  walk  over  to  neighbor 
Hoskins.  When  Sam  came,  the  old  folks  chatted  pleas- 
antly a  little  while,  but  soon  they  went  to  bed.  They 
always  insisted  that  bed  was  the  safest  place,  in  spite  of 
the  ugly  fact,  that  more  people  have  died  there,  than  any- 
where else.  Sam  took  the  baby  and  frolicked  with  him. 
Mary  sat  and  sewed  or  knit,  or  did  nothing,  but  smile  at 
the  joy  of  baby  and  Sam.  His  visits  became  a  necessity. 
Baby  expected  him.  He  laughed  and  made  a  break  for 
Sam,  as  soon  as  he  was  inside  the  house.  That  which 
began  in  pity  and  sympathy,  became  a  comfort  and  a 
healing.  Although  Sam  was  not  conscious  that  he  needed 
to  be  restored  or  sustained  particularly,  yet  somehow  the 
arrangement  which  had  come  spontaneously,  was  as  much 
a  blessing  to  him.  If  you  paid  no  attention  to  other 
scripture,  and  remembered  only  that  "  pure  religion  and 
undefined  is,  to,  visit  the  widow  and  fatherless  in  their 
affliction,  and  keep  yourself  unspotted  from  the  world," 
you  would  conclude  that  Sam  Ellet  was  a  very  earnest 
Christian.  There  is  a  pile  of  joy  in  doing  your  duty,  and, 
if  you  did  but  know  it,  it  is  very  seldom  that  you  have  to 
go  against  the  grain,  at  all.  So  Sam's  happiness  grew. 

The  path  across  the  fields,  that  led  from  the  Bartlett 
farm  to  the  Hoskins  farm,  was  well  worn.  They  were 
good  neighbors  to  each  other.  It  was  night  again.  After 
supper  Sam  said,  I  guess  I  will  go  over  and  have  a  socia- 
ble with  the  baby  again.  He  was  at  home  at  once,  they 
were  so  glad  to  see  him.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hoskins  were 
pleasant  and  glad  to  have  him  there.  Mary  had  a  gratified 
look  as  she  resigned  the  boy  to  Sam.  It  was  a  pretty  pict- 
ure, that  sitting-room,  with  the  open  fire-place,  and  the 


A  DISTURBING  ELEMENT.  159 

dancing  light  is  very  fine,  if  you  do  not  need  a  steadier 
light,  to  read  or  work  by. 

"  An1  little  fires  shone  all  about  the  china  on  the  dresser." 

They  told  stories.  They  had  some  apples.  Nice  apples 
too.  The  old  folks  were  simple  unconscious  folks.  That 
is,  maybe  they  were,  and  maybe  they  were  still,  quiet, 
long-headed  people,  content  to  let  things  go,  if  they  went 
right,  but  to  be  counted  on  as  a  strong  obstacle,  if  they 
went  wrong. 

"  Short-handed,  heavy-armed  —  a  man  that  had  been  strong, 
And  might  be  dangerous  still,  if  things  went  wrong." 

At  eight  o'clock,  Mr.  Hoskins  said,  "Well,  mother,  I 
think  I  will  disappear  in  a  general  way  as  Mark  Twain's 
twin  brother  did." 

Sam  Ellet  had  read  Sam  Clemens's  "  Encounter  with  an 
Interviewer,"  and  it  pleased  him  to  hear  it  applied  so  pat. 
Some  New  Hampshire  farmers  have  a  rich  collection  of 
dry  jokes.  A  few  minutes  later,  a  little  squeak  or  two 
told  that  farmer  Hoskins  had  put  himself  in  his  little  bed, 
in  the  corner  bedroom. 

Then  mother  Hoskins  arose,  went  and  bolted  the  back 
door,  and  said,  "  Now  I  guess  I  will  go  and  see  what  has 
become  of  father." 

It  was  a  sweet  bit  of  hypocrisy.  There  are  some 
blessed  little  swindles  in  this  world.  Like  the  curl  in  a 
pig's  tail,  of  no  commercial  value  whatever,  but,  oh,  so 
picturesque,  and  too  sweet  for  anything.  And  when, 
after  two  little  whacks,  and  a  rustle  or  two,  a  squeak  of 
the  blessed  old  bedstead  in  the  bedroom  was  faintly 
heard,  then  Sam  looked  with  a  sly  smile  at  Mary,  as  if  to 


160  THE    WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

say :  that  is  the  most  sensible  thing  they  could  possibly 
do.  Mary  did  not  deny  it.  The  baby  was  asleep.  They 
sat  just  easy  distance  apart,  and  in  such  a  light  as  to  see 
each  other  to  perfection.  They  talked  of  Roy  and  his 
doings,  of  friends  and  neighbors,  and  Sam  read  some  spicy 
things  he  had  cut  from  the  papers.  The  hour  was  short 
when  the  long  clock  in  the  corner,  rang  out  nine,  in  its 
silver  chime.  Sam  said  he  must  go.  Don't  hurry,  said 
Mary. 

They  walked  to  the  front  entry.  The  light  was  not  so 
strong  as  in  the  room,  but  they  needed  no  hand-lamp. 
They  walked  softly  and  slowly  and  Sa.m  stopped  in  the 
half-light,  near  the  front  door.  He  turned  toward  Mary, 
and  putting  his  hand  on  her  rich  dark  brown  hair,  he 
smoothed  it- down,  as  if  in  pity  and  sympathy  for  her 
troubles,  and  he  kissed  her.  She  did  not  say  him  nay. 
That  one  kiss  put  ideas  in  his  mind.  It  was  a  kiss  of 
help  and  friendship.  But  his  heart  gave  a  jump  and 
demanded  its  rights  for  more.  His  heart  ruled.  He 
put  his  left  arm  around  her  neck  and  with  his  right  hand 
under  her  chin,  \vhile  she  looked  with  great  honest  eyes 
up  into  his  face,  and  then  he  kissed  her,  for  himself,  and 
for  herself,  and  for  love,  and  for  luck,  and  for  her  father 
and  mother,  and  her  distant  relations,  devotedly,  raptur- 
ously, gloriously.  He  kissed  her  for  Christmas,  Fourth 
of  July  and  Thanksgiving,  and  in  a  minute  more  he 
would  have  kissed  her  for  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the 
De  —  claration  of  Independence,  but  she  cried  out,  oh, 
Sammy,  don't,  you  hurt  me.  You  don't  want  to  bring 
trouble  to  me,  do  you,  Sammy.  No,  said  Sam,  I'd  die 
first.  Then  don't  kiss  me  any  more  to-night.  You  have 
been  good  to  me,  and  the  baby  loves  you.  To-night, 


A    DISTURBING   ELEMENT.  161 

was  a  saving  clause,  and  Sam  saw  it.  She  opened  the 
front  door.  Sam  moved  slowly  out.  Good-night,  Sammy, 
come  again.  He  could  only  say,  good-night,  Mary,  I  will 
come.  It  was  all  there  was  to  say.  He  moved  slowly 
through  the  front  yard  toward  the  road.  The  door 
slowly  closed  and  Mary  Hoskins  went  in,  sat  down  in 
the  big  rocking-chair,  and  stretched  her  feet  out  to  her 
full  length,  like  one  who  stretches  up  after  being  long  in 
one  position ;  then  with  her  lips  pursed  up  she  blew  out 
her  breath  as  forcibly  as  a  boy,  and  said,  softly,  to  her- 
self, whew !  what  a  siege.  How  Sammy  did  lose  his 
head.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  she  laughed  —  the  demure  little 
witch  —  Sam  is  a  goner.  He's  gone.  If  I  had  made 
him  eat  a  bushel  of  Turkish  love  powders,  he  could  have 
had  it  no  worse.  Ha !  ha  !  ha !  That  is  a  good  one,  and 
Sam  is  a  daisy.  Lucky  I  didn't  lose  my  head  though, 
she  continued,  in  soliloquy,  and  then  she  added  with  a 
stern,  set,  severe  face,  and  her  fist  doubled  up  as  a 
woman  always  doubles  it,  with  the  thumb  on  the  end  of 
the  four  fingers,  instead  of  in  front  of  the  middle  finger, 
as  a  man  does,  and  she  shook  her  fist  at  some  imaginary 
being  in  the  air,  and  said  sternly,  and  I  won't  lose  my 
head,  Sammy.  I  won't  lose  my  head,  Sammy.  I  have 
been  a  fool  once,  and  that  is  enough.  If  I  ever  do  marry 
again,  it  will  be  to  some  good,  pure,  true,  clean,  smart 
man,  and  it  may  be  to  you,  Mr.  Samuel  Ellet,  and  she 
smiled  very  sweetly,  as  she  spoke  to  the  imaginary  Sam. 
And  she  meant  it.  She  was  good  enough  for  Sam  Ellet 
or  anybody  else.  She  lay  back  in  the  rocking-chair,  with 
her  face  wreathed  in  smiles,  which  played  over  her  sweet 
face,  in  the  flickering  fire-light,  like  heat  lightning.  The 
clock  struck  again.  She  sprang  up.  My  stars,  it  is 


162  THE    WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

eleven  o'clock.  Well,  I  don't  care,  Sam  didn't  stay 
until  eleven  o'clock,  so  people  can't  talk  about  me.  But 
now  I  must  go  to  bed.  Wonder  how  Sammy  is,  I  war- 
rant lie  is  not  asleep.  She  hit  it  just  right ;  a  woman 
always  does.  Sometimes.  Mary  went  to  bed  beside 
little  Walter.  But  she  had  something  in  her  mind,  that 
kept  her  thoroughly  wide  awake,  and  she  thought  and 
smiled,  and  took  long  breaths  occasionally,  until  the  old 
clock  chimed  twelve,  as  sweetly,  but  not  as  sadly  as  it 
does  at  low  twelve  at  the  funeral  of  a  master-Mason. 
Then  she  said  to  herself,  now  this  won't  do,  I  am  going 
to  sleep  just  as  tight  as  I  can.  And  she  did.  I  find, 
when  a  woman  says  no,  she  means  it,  occasionally. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

SAM   ELLET    IN   LOVE. 

THERE  is  an  old  and  very  witty  problem,  and  it  is 
this.  "If  an  irresistible  force  comes  in  contact  with  an 
immovable  body,  what  will  the  result  be?"  The  ques- 
tion and  answer  are  both  full  of  wisdom,  mixed  with 
very  refreshing  lunacy.  The  wisdom  is  not  so  much  in 
what  you  learn,  as  what  you  don't.  The  answer  is  just 
these  four  words :  "  the  devil  to  pay."  This  describes 
the  condition  Sam  Ellet  was  in,  when  Mury  Hoskins 
said,  good-night,  Sammy,  come  again,  so  sweetly.  He 
walked  a  few  steps  to  the  road,  then  he  stopped,  looked 
down  a  moment,  sighed,  like  a  cow  that  has  just  lain 
down,  turned  around,  and  looked  at  the  house.  It  was 
not  very  dark  or  very  light.  There  was  a  little  of  the 
old  moon  in  the  sky,  and  some  light  fleecy  clouds. 
There  was  a  light  in  the  Hoskins  window.  He  took  two 
steps  toward  the  house.  He  stopped  again.  He  tried  to 
find  a  reason  for  going  back.  -  He  could  not  find  one ; 
no,  not  one,  or  a  sign  of  one.  So  he  sighed  again,  looked 
east  toward  the  Hoskins  house,  then  west  toward  the 
Bartlett  farm.  The  most  of  this  deliberation  was  in  the 
road.  There  were  no  teams  passing,  or  he  would  surely 
have  got  run  over.  By  a  great  effort  he  turned  his  back 
on  Mary  and  went  to  the  wall.  He  did  not  happen  to 
hit  the  bars  as  usual,  but  he  did  not  care.  He  could 

163 


164  THE   WILD  AKTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

straddle  a  wall,  he  could;  and  he  did.  He  knocked 
down  some  of  the  rocks  and  barked  his  shin.  He  was 
over,  anyway.  He  looked  to  see  where  he  was,  and 
there  was  that  big  pair  of  bars  within  ten  feet  of  him  and 
wide  open.  He  laughed.  It  was  very,  very  funny.  I 
don't  care,  said  he,  "  The  farthest  way  round  is  the  near- 
est way  home."  This  is  a  New  Hampshire  proverb.  It 
is  awful  good  for  folks  who  go  wool-gathering.  Sam 
kept  on  a  rod  or  two,  and  Mary  Hoskins's  face  was  so 
plainly  in  his  mind  that  he  stopped  to  gaze  at  it.  He 
stopped  for  some  time.  He  sighed,  then  shook  himself 
and  went  on.  Again  he  stopped  and  looked  back  at  the 
light  he  had  just  left.  He  gazed  hard  at  it  and  seemed 
to  see  Mary  Hoskins  inside,  sitting  and  thinking  kindly, 
safely,  and  prudently  of  him.  He  walked  on.  He 
wanted  to  go  to  Mary,  but  his  duty  led  him  home  to 
Bartlett's.  So,  still  keeping  his  mind's  eye  on  Mary,  he 
unconsciously  split  the  difference,  and  wandered  off  into 
the  field.  He  stopped  once  or  twice,  that  he  might  gaze 
the  harder  at  Mary,  in  his  mind.  Then  he  slowly  moved 
onward  by  guess.  It  was  a  poor  guess.  He  had  not 
gone  far  before  he  was  over  shoes  in  a  mudhole.  The 
cold  water  gave  his  blood  a  start. 

He  took  the  back  track  in  an  instant,  with  "  I  declare, 
here  I  am  in  the  Hoskins  mudhole.  Well,  well,  I  am 
almost  a  fool.  It  is  the  only  water  within  half  a  mile." 
So  he  wiped  his  shoes  on  the  grass,  and  then  went 
straight  to  the  path  which  led  to  the  getting-over  place 
in  the  corner.  It  was  easy  enough  now  ;  he  could  look 
at  Mary  again.  He  did.  He  would  just  sit  on  the  fence, 
in  the  corner,  and  think  big  about  Mary.  Just  as  he  got 
into  the  dark  corner,  to  step  upon  the  fence,  something 


SAM  ELLET  IN   LOVE.  165 

let  out  a  blood-curdling  yell,  rushed  by  his  legs  with  a 
great  rattling  of  the  bushes,  and  ran  yelping  away.  He  nev- 
er knew  what  it  was,  but  concluded  it  was  some  lost  dog, 
and  that  he  had  not  only  disturbed  his  sleep,  but  had  trod 
upon  his  tail.  Sam  was  startled  as  much  as  the  dog  was. 
The  course  of  his  love  did  not  run  smooth  a  bit.  So  it 
must  be  true.  Sam  sat  upon  the  fence,  and  gave  his 
whole  mind  to  Mary  Hoskins.  Probably  she  was  running 
a  battery  at  her  end  of  the  line.  Then  he  descended 
from  his  roost,  and  dragging  slowly  his  lengthening 
chain,  he  kept  on  to  the  Bartlett  farm.  He  hugged 
Canis  Major,  and  found  some  one  to  kiss  him  back.  He 
stopped.  Right  there  before  him,  he  could  see  her  with 
his  eyes  shut,  was  Mary  Hoskins.  The  time  passed  on. 
Sam  did  not  move  far,  and  Canis  Major  wondered  what 
had  possessed  Sam.  Then  he  thought  he  would  sit  on 
the  new  board  fence,  and  think  sitting,  taking  it  easy. 
He  mounted  it  and  began.  He  gazed  in  his  mind  at 
Mary,  her  eyes,  her  hair,  and  was  conscious  that  he  was 
sitting  on  a  pain.  It  grew.  Ah  !  Mary  was  very  attrac- 
tive. The  fence  was  a  mean  seat,  but  he  could  stand  it, 
I  mean  sit  on  it,  to  think  of  Mary  Hoskins.  Oh,  good 
gracious !  this  fence ;  but  Mary's  sweet  face,  and  her 
sweet  invitation.  Come  again,  of  course  I  will.  Oh,  Great 
Scott,  it  is  terrific!  What  in  thunder  am  I  sitting  on? 
He  jumped  off  and  examined.  It  was  a  new,  wany- 
edged  board,  as  sharp  as  a  knife.  He  had  almost  cut  a 
gash  a  foot  long.  He  rubbed  the  seat  of  war.  He  tried 
to  straighten  up,  and  by  attending  to  himself  exclusively, 
for  a  few  minutes,  he  was  able  to  see  a  light  come  into  his 
mind.  It  was  Mary  Hoskins.  Sam  had  outdone  Mary. 
She  was  abed  and  asleep ;  but  he  had  no  more  exposition 


166  THE  WILD   ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

of  sleep  than  if  he  was  having  a  tooth  pulled.  The  small 
hours  came  on. 

Sam  took  a  big  look  at  Mary,  by  faith,  and  went  into 
the  house.  He  took  an  allopathic  dose  of  that  element 
that  killed  so  many  in  the  great  rain,  and  went  up  to  bed. 
He  straightened  out  and  closed  his  eyes.  A  heavenly 
cloud  came  over  him,  and  right  in  the  centre  of  its  celes- 
tial brightness  was  Mary  Hoskins,  looking  ineffable  sweet- 
ness at  Sam  Ellet.  But,  with  a  feather-bed  under  him, 
hot  blood  racing  in  his  veins,  and  Mary  Hoskins  in  his 
mind,  he  was  soon  hotter  than  a  baked  apple.  He  stood 
it  as  lonsj  as  he  could,  then  he  rolled  over  to  the  cool 

O  ' 

side,  to  let  it  cool  off.  Then  Mary  came  to  the  fore 
again,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  almost  sizzled.  He  tried 
it  cornerwise,  but  it  began  with  hot  spots  in  it,  and  ended 
by  being  hot  all  the  way.  He  sat  up  awhile,  and  by 
shortening  his  interviews  with  Mary,  he  got  asleep. 
Even  then  he  went  it  all  over  again.  First,  he  would 
walk  out,  worshipping  Mary.  Then  Ke  got  in  the 
Hoskins  mudhole  ;  then  the  old  boy  jumped  out  with  a 
yelp,  and  ran  off  ki-yi-ing ;  then  Mary  beamed  on  him 
high  up  in  the  sky,  much  like  the  moon,  much  like  Mary. 
She  came  nearer.  The  room,,  of  course,  grew  lighter; 
she  smiled ;  she  looked  Oh,  so  good !  Oh,  she  was  com- 
ing! Yes,  she  rushed  into  his  arms,  and  was  kissing  him 
for  all  he  was  worth,  an  immense  sum.  He  waked  up. 
He  was  being  kissed,  but  it  was  Canis  Major.  It  was 
morning,  and  cow  time.  Sam  had  had  a  poor  night. 
He  got  up ;  took  a  big  drink  of  water ;  laved  his  red 
cheeks  and  hot  hands ;  and  went  to  milking. 

Mr.  Bartlett  was  already  there.  Sam  sat  down  by 
Jerusha,  and  in  an  instant  his  mind  was  fired  with  Mary 


SAM  ELLET  IN  LOVE.  167 

Hoskins.  Yes,  dear  Mary.  Jerusha  looked  around  to 
see  why  he  did  not  milk,  if  he  was  going  to.  Sam  turned 
away  from  Mary,  and  attended  to  Jerusha.  Ting,  ting, 
ting  ting,  went  the  alternate  streams  of  milk  into  the 
pail,  and  soon  Jerusha  had  yielded  up  her  sweetness,  like 
a  four-legged  saint,  as  she  was.  Then  he  came  to  Dolly. 
Dolly  was  a  tall,  proud  young  cow,  that  it  was  very  hard 
to  convince  that  it  was  right  for  men  to  handle  her.  She 
had  been  a  queen  in  some  previous  state  of  existence. 
She  never  allowed  one  to  scratch  her  head.  She  had 
learned  that  she  must  be  milked,  but  she  allowed  no  fool- 
ing. This  is  a  portrait :  — Proud,  airy,  sleek,  graceful, 
lady-like,  a  bovine  queen ;  she  knew  her  rights,  and  was 
one  of  the  best  of  cows.  Sam  sat  down  by  her  side  to 
milk  her,  but  sweet  Mary  Hoskins  came  into  his  mind, 
and  he  sat  still,  and  gazed  at  her.  Dolly  would  not  stand 
it,  and  she  up  with  her  foot,  and  kicked  him  over.  Sam 
landed  in  the  debris.  He  got  sadly  and  slowly  up,  not 
much  hurt,  but  not  so  nice  as  he  was.  Poor  Sam.  He 
was  hard  used. 

Mr.  Bartlett  saw  it  all,  for  he  knew  what  ailed  Sam, 
and  being  behind  the  cows,  he  laughed  inside,  as  if  he 
would  die.  His  old  diaphragm  jumped  up  and  down,  un- 
til he  sweat.  But  he  made  no  sound.  He  and  his  wife 
had  kept  an  eye  on  Sam  all  the  time.  Sam  milked  Dolly 
and  others,  and  the  job  was  done.  They  went  to  break- 
fast. Mr.  Bartlett  helped  Sam ;  but  soon  Sam's  head 
went  forward,  as  if  he  was  taking  a  big  look  at  some- 
thing. He  was.  It  was  Mary  Hoskins.  He  ate  some- 
thing, but  not  much.  He  saw  signs  and  wonders ;  had 
visions  without  number  ;  and  right  in  the  middle  of  every 
one  of  them  was  Mary  Hoskins.  He  forgot  his  pie. 


168  THE  WILD   ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

Now,  what  condition  can  a  Yankee  be  in,  who  can  forget 
his  pie  ?  He  walked  out.  He  stopped,  and  looked  down. 
There  was  no  flavor  in  anything  but  Mary  Hoskins. 

Those  two  old  coots,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bartlett,  watched 
him  slyly,  and  were  just  ready  to  die  with  laughter. 
They  knew  how  he  felt,  for  they  had  had  the  same  com- 
plaint. Sam  worked  a  little  between  the  visions.  Noth- 
ing was  right.  His  food  did  not  interest  him.  His 
clothes  did  not  fit  him.  Nothing  ever  would  again  but 
Mary  Hoskins.  Just  before  milking  time,  Sam  straight- 
ened up,  smote  his  right  leg  and  said  firmly,  I'll  do  it,  by 
thunder.  He  had  been  with  Sam  Weller.  He  got  new 
strength  from  his  decision,  did  his  chores  creditably,  and 
ate  a  little  supper.  Then  he  shaved,  put  on  his  pretties, 
and  went  forth  to  meet  the  shadowy  future,  without  fear 
and  with  a  manly  heart.  The  baby  was  glad  to  see  him. 
Mary  was  handsomer  than  ever. 

The  old  folks  put  themselves  away  in  ordinary,  very 
early.  It  was  queer  how  much  rest  they  did  need. 

Sam  kept  his  vow.  He  began  :  "  I  have  come  over 
here  to-night,  to  ask  you  to  marry  me.  Will  you, 
Mary?" 

"  How  about  the  baby,  Sammy  ?  " 

"  I  want  him  too." 

"Do  you  truly,  Sammy?" 

"  Yes,  I  do.  I  will  do  my  best  for  both  of  you  as  long 
as  I  live." 

"Then  I  will,  Sammy.  But  I'll  ask  father."  She 
opened  the  bedroom  door  a  little.  "Father,  are  you 
awake  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Father,  Sammy  wants  to  marry  me." 


SAM  ELLET  IN   LOVE.  169 

"Well,  why  don't  he?" 

Sam  smiled.     So  did  Mary. 

"Are  you  willing,  father?" 

"  Yes,  I  am.  Sam  Ellet  is  good  enough  for  you  or  any- 
body else." 

Sam  blossomed.     He  was  happy. 

"Are  you  willing,  mother?" 

"  Yes,  dear,  and  God  bless  you  both." 

Sam's  happiness  had  come,  and  the  old  folks  were  not 
long  behind  it,  for  they  got  up,  dressed  themselves,  and 
came  out  to  talk  it  over. 

Sam  said  he  would  try  to  hire  a  place  or  get  Mr.  Bart- 
lett  to  suggest  some  way  they  could  make  a  beginning, 
but  Mr.  Hoskins  cut  him  short.  "  Why,  Sam.  Come 
and  live  with  us.  This  farm  needs  you.  I  will  give  you 
your  living  and  half  or  more  of  all  we  sell  off.  We  can 
keep  more  stock  and  raise  three  times  as  much  crops. 
Come  at  once,  Sammy." 

"  I  will  if  Mary  is  willing." 

"  You  may,"  said  Mary. 

It  was  decided  that  the  wedding  should  be  on  the 
second  Sunday  evening,  at  five  o'clock.  Sam  was  as  quiet 
as  a  lamb.  He  told  them  that  he  should  make  the  old 
farm  shine.  He  did. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

SAM    AND    MARY. 

THE  next  morning  Sam  had  a  hard  job  to  do.  He  had 
nearly  finished  his  breakfast,  and  had  scarcely  known 
what  he  was  eating,  the  subject  in  his  mind  had  so  occu- 
pied him.  Then  he  told  it.  He  began  :  "  Uncle  and 
Aunt  Bartlett,  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  must  leave  you.  And 
it  breaks  me  all  up.  You  have  been  so  kind  and  good  to 
me.  But  I  have  been  getting  over  head  and  ears  in  love 
with  Mary  Hoskins.  It  seemed  the  only  thing  to  do.  I 
have  asked  her  to  marry  me,  and  she  will.  The  old  folks 
want  me  to  live  with  them.  They  will  give  us  a  living 
and  half  that  is  sold  from  the  farm.  It  is  a  good  chance. 
There  is  no  chance  for  any  quarrel,  for  Mary  is  an  only 
child.  We  are  to  be  married  a  week  from  next  Sunday 
evening,  at  five  o'clock." 

"Sam,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett,  "you  have  done  well.  I 
knew  what  was  coming.  Mother  and  I  have  been  laugh- 
ing about  it  for  a  week.  We  are  glad  of  your  luck.  It 
is  a  good  job,  well  done.  Mary  will  m:;ke  you  a  good 
wife.  She  is  about  your  age.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hoskins 
will  both  help  you." 

Said  Mrs.  Bartlett,  "Yes,  Sam.  We  rejoice  with  you. 
You  don't  need  to  say  good-by,  we  shall  see  you  so  often. 
If  you  get  hungry,  Sammy,  come  over  and  get  some  of 
iny  cookies.  Father,"  she  continued,  "  what  are  we  going 
to  do  for  Sam  ?  " 

170 


SAM   AND  MARY.  171 

"  Oh,  something  nice,  I  guess.  Suppose  we  give  him 
Lady  Fly." 

Lady  Fly  was  a  beautiful  half  Jersey  cow,  kind  and 
gentle,  that  loved  to  be  petted,  and  was  one  of  Sam's 
favorites.  Mr.  Bartlett  said  he  was  awful  sorry  to  have 
Sam  go,  but  the  sorrow  was  all  turned  to  joy,  it  was  such 
a  blessing  to  Sam.  And  again,  the  Hoskins  farm  joined 
the  Bartlett  farm,  and  Sam  would  be  only  over  the  fence, 
away. 

A  day  later,  Roy  received  this  letter,  — 

DEAR  ROY,  —  You  will  be  surprised  at  the  news  I  shall  tell 
you.  I  am  engaged  to  Mary  Hoskins,  and  am  going  to  be  mar- 
ried a  week  from  Sunday  evening,  at  five  o'clock.  If  you  can 
come  and  see  your  friend  off,  I  shall  be  glad  to  do  as  much  for 
you.  We  shall  live  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hoskins,  and  he  wants 
me  to  make  the  farm  shine,  which  I  can  easily  do.  It  is  a  good 
home  and  a  good  situation.  You  know  that  I  can  save  my 
money.  I  know  it  is  young  to  be  married  at  twenty-one,  but 
it  came  to  me  so  forcibly,  that  I  thought  it  best.  I  shall  be  at 
the  usual  train  on  Saturday  to  see  who  is  there. 
Ever  your  friend, 

SAMUEL  ELLET. 

Roy  was  not  as  much  surprised  as  Sam  thought,  for  he 
had  heard  from  his  mother.  Roy  remembered  how  Sam 
had  saved  him  from  Will  Glance,  and  he  went  out  and 
bought  him  a  black  walnut  chamber  set  and  also  had  a 
good-sized  oil  painting  framed  for  him,  for  a  wedding  pres- 
ent. When  he  went  home  to  the  Warrens'  that  night,  he 
told  them  the  story  of  Sam's  good  fortune  and  the  story 
of  Will  Glance,  which  interested  them  much.  Before 
Roy  went,  the  Misses  Warren  gave  him  a  package,  in 
trust  for  Sam,  containing  a  quantity  of  silver  spoons. 
Mr.  Bartlett  paid  Sam  all  his  wages,  and  on  the  Saturday 


172  THE  WILD   ARTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

before  the  day,  Mr.  Bartlett  and  his  wife  told  Sara  to  stay 
in  the  kitchen  and  keep  house,  until  they  returned.  This 
caused  him  some  apprehension,  as  the  diplomatic  relations 
were  becoming  somewhat  strained  already.  When,  a 
little  later,  they  came  from  the  barn  leading  Lady  Fly, 
with  brass  balls  on  her  horns  and  the  end  of  each  horn 
decorated  with  a  bow  of  white  ribbon,  then  Sam's  heart 
gave  a  big  jump  and  danced  Hi,  Betty  Martin,  until  the 
tears  came  in  his  eyes.  They  led  Lady  Fly  over  to  the 
Hoskins  farm,  a  good  home  for  her"  and  her  descendants. 
Saturday  night  brought  Roy,  sure  enough,  and  Sam 
had  already  got  his  presents,  which  had  been  much  ad- 
mired at  the  Hoskins  farm.  When  Roy  greeted  Sam  with 
a  cheery  word  and  a  hearty  grasp,  there  was  a  toad  in 
Sam's  throat,  that  almost  strangled  him.  He  soon  got  his 
wind,  and  said  he  should  have  to  get  married  often  to  get 
Roy  home.  That  night  Mary  did  not  see  Sam.  The 
Bartletts  had  him.  And  every  one  had  the  same  feeling, 
that,  to  take  a  poor,  little,  frail,  half-nourished  boy,  too 
young  to  help  himself,  and  no  help  but  the  God  of  the 
widow  and  the  fatherless,  and  educate  that  boy  fairly, 
make  him  healthy  and  strong,  and  grow  a  great,  big, 
clean,  white  soul  in  him,  loving  and  beloved,  giving  and 
hoping  for  nothing  again,  and  have  him  turn  out  as  well 
as  Sam  Ellet,  was  indeed  a  triumph  for  them  all.  Some 
people  glorify  everything  they  touch.  They  had  their 
supper.  Somehow  they  could  not  talk  much,  although 
they  had  a  quiet  evening  together.  The  fact  is,  the 
whole  family  were  feeling  very  mellow;  and  when,  a  lit- 
tle later,  Mr.  Bartlett  read  a  psalm  of  thanksgiving,  and 
prayed  for  them  all  by  name,  it  seemed  as  if  help  must 
come  of  it. 


SAM  AND   MARY.  173 

The  Hoskins  family  had  a  late  breakfast,  and  a  three 
o'clock  dinner  on  Sunday.  Mr.  Hoskins  had  provided  a 
huge  wedding  cake,  so  they  could  nibble  that  for  supper. 
The  Orthodox  minister  and  his  wife  from  Dover  came 
up.  The  Bartletts  were  there,  Mr.  Hoskins's  brother  from 
Barrington,  and  some  relatives,  Elisha  McDuffie  and  his 
wife,  and  Jean  and  his  lady.  There  were  no  tears  and 
no  fears.  All  were  glad  of  it.  Mary  and  Sam"  were  a 
handsome,  well-mated  couple  as  you  often  see.  Ail  hour 
later  the  guests  departed,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Iloskins  took 
little  Walter  and  went  to  Barrington  for  a  three-days 
visit,  leaving  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Samuel  Ellet  to  keep  house 
as  best  they  could,  and  investigate  one  of  the  problems 
that  Solomon  pretended  he  could  never  understand. 

The  whole  thing  had  been  a  perfect  success.  It  went 
up  like  a  sky-rocket,  like  Dr.  Marigold's  entertainment. 

The  next  day,  Mr.  Guy  Bartlett  brought  home  another 
boy,  to  see  if  he  could  stock  him  up  with  body  and  soul, 
victuals  and  driuk,  education  and  principles. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

DR.    A.    C.    SMITH   AT   THE    ART   COTERIE. 

ROY  was  considered  a  rising  artist.  He  kept  his  word, 
was  especially  faithful  to  his  pupils,  and  he  did  not  ruck 
or  provoke  his  brother  or  sister  artists  with  useless  causticv 
criticism.  He  was  of  the  opinion  that  people  learn  more 
by  the  praise  of  beauty,  than  the  condemnation  of  the 
want  of  it.  And  so  am  I.  Roy  had  declined  to  take 
money  from  Miss  Graham  for  lessons,  she  was  so  much 
help  to  him.  This  she  would  not  consent  to.  Her  uncle 
was  allowed  all  he  needed  for  family  expenses,  and  her 
lessons  were  a  part  of  it.  They  finally  settled  it  by  Miss 
Graham's  proposition  to  take  the  studio  with  him,  and 
pay  half  the  rent.  It  was  forty  dollars  a  month  ;  twenty 
for  each.  She  was  to  get  all  the  lessons  she  needed  from 
him,  and  help  teach  his  pupils  for  the  practice  it  gave 
her.  Inasmuch  as  the  money  came  from  a  great  estate, 
Roy  consented,  and  Miss  Graham  had  a  studio  of  her 
own.  The  studio  was  not  open  evenings  at  all,  Miss 
Graham  never  having  been  there,  and  Roy  being  so  well 
situated  for  companionship,  and  with  such  easy  chairs, 
papers,  magazines,  and  Mrs.  Warren's  library,  that  he 
kept  much  at  home.  Roy  was  saving  his  money  as  much 
as  possible  to  clear  his  real  estate.  He  hoped  to  do  it  in 
a  little  over  a  year.  He  still  had  a  good  sum  in  the 
Dover  Savings  Bank,  which  he  had  never  drawn  upon. 
It  was  a  favorite  story  with  him  about  the  Englishman 

174 


vu,f 


DR.   A.    C.   SMITH   AT  THE  ART  COTERIE.      175 

who  wished  to  hire  a  coachman.  The  Englishman  adver- 
tised for  a  man  suitable  to  drive  his  coach.  Three  men 
came.  He  asked  the  first  one  how  near  he  could  drive 
to  a  precipice,  and  do  it  safely.  He  thought  he  could 
drive  within  a  foot.  He  asked  the  second.  He  thought 
he  could  drive  within  six  inches.  He  asked  the  third, 
a  canny  Scot,  who  answered,  if  I  ever  drive  your  coach, 
I  shall  keep  as  far  from  a  precipice  as  I  can.  And  the 
Scot  became  the  coachman.  It  will  do  for  a  story.  But 
all  wisdom  is  not  contained  in  one  statement,  scripture, 
sermon,  song,  or  sentiment  any  more  than  all  beauty  is 
contained  in  one  scene  or  picture. 

The  night  for  the  meeting  of  the  Art  Coterie  had 
come.  The  Warrens  had  often  called  at  Roy's  studio, 
and  of  course  had  made  the  pleasant  acquaintance  of 
Miss  Graham.  They  seemed  to  take  to  each  other  at 
once.  When  the  Art  Coterie  was  discussed,  they  seemed 
to  have  a  confidential  understanding  with  Miss  Graham, 
which  Roy  felt  was  more  than  he  ever  possessed. 

The  studio  door  bore  the  name  "  R.  Bartlett,  Land- 
scape Artist."  Underneath  it,  in  smaller  letters,  "  Miss 
Graham."  For  two  days  past  the  door  had  borne  this 
additional  legend  :  "  The  Art  Coterie  will  meet  on  Thurs- 
day evening,  at  the  usual  hour  and  place.  Per  order." 

If  there  is  anything  that  has  exerted  a  permanent 
influence  upon  the  human  race,  an  influence  that  has 
not  yet  entirely  died  out,  it  is  curiosity.  You  ought  to 
have  seen  the  people  stop  and  read  that  notice.  The 
expression  of  their  faces  was.  Wai,  neow,  wot  in  thunder 
is  that?  I  do  not  say  that  any  one  in  Boston  ever  said 
such  a  thing,  but  I  do  say  that  all  but  the  initiated  went 
oil  with  an  interrogation  point  in  their  minds,  higher 


176  THE   WILD  ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

than  Bunker  Hill  monument.  The  eventful  evening 
came.  When  Miss  Graham  came  Roy  did  not  know. 
Miss  Emily  said  she  was  upstairs  with  Miss  Sarah,  and 
was  all  right.  The  great  double  parlors  and  hall  and  all 
available  rooms  were  plum-full. 

Roy  took  a  prominent  position,  and  began :  "  Ladies 
and  gentlemen,  the  Art  Coterie  has  grown  so  fast  that  I 
hardly  recognized  it.  Remember,  it  is  entirely  informal, 
and  its  entertainments  are  unique  and  entirely  original. 
I  am  happy  to  tell  you  that  I  have  some  one  here  with 
me,  but  not  in  this  room,  where  he  can  hear  me,  or  he 
would  be  too  modest  to  allow  me  to  say  what  I  shall  say. 
The  ladies  have  inveigled  him  away  for  a  moment,  so 
that  I  can  tell  you  about  my  friend,  Doctor  Alvah  C. 
Smith,  whom  I  consider  about  the  pleasantest,  most 
entertaining,  and  accomplished  man  and  the  best  com- 
pany that  I  ever  knew.  Of  course  he  comes  here  to 
entertain  us  only  after  much  solicitation,  for  he  is  as 
modest  as  he  is  accomplished.  He  is  a  regularly  educated 
physician,  but  he  chose  to  teach.  He  has  taught  in  the 
grammar  schools  of  Cambridgeport,  for  more  than  twenty- 
five  years.  He  is  a  fine  scholar.  He  is  teacher  of  the 
guitar.  He  plays  the  organ  and  piano. .  He  plays  and 
teaches  the  fife,  flute,  and  piccolo.  He  can  drum  exqui- 
sitely. He  can  make  the  old  violin  talk,  and  tell  more  of 
the  old  hornpipes  and  queer  old  music  than  you  ever 
heard.  He  knows  more 

"  Quips  and  cranks  and  wanton  wiles, 
Nods  and  becks  and  wreathed  smiles," 

than  the  whole  of  us,  more  jokes,  problems,  stories,  and 
songs  than  anybody.  Don't  any  one  dare  to  criticise  it, 


DR.   A.   C.   SMITH   AT   THE   AET   COTERIE.      177 

but  give  your  whole  mind  to  it,  as  Mark  TVain  did 
to  the  interviewer.  Banish  dull  care,  lay  right  back  and 
smile  when  the  time  comes." 

This  was  the  keynote  to  enjoyment. 

The  Misses  Warren  escorted  the  doctor  to  the  chair, 
and  Miss  Emily  said:  "My  friends,  I  now  have  the 
pleasure  of  introducing  my  old  and  valued  friend,  Doctor 
Smith,  who  has  consented  to  entertain  us  this  evening." 

They  cheered  him  so  heartily  that  he  saw  some  one  had 
been  talking.  He  rose,  bowed,  and  said :  "  If  you  are 
disappointed  in  your  entertainment,  you  can  blame  Mr. 
Bartlett.  He  is  a  New  Hampshire  man,  like  myself.  He 
did  it.  Does  any  one  happen  to  have  a  guitar  in  his 
vest  pocket  ?  " 

It  came,  having  been  "tuned  and  put  in  order  behind 
the  scenes.  Without  prelude  he  began  to  sing  with  the 
guitar,  "  Happy  are  we  to-night,  boys,"  and  a  sweet  inter- 
lude. Then  the  old-fashioned  song,  sung  in  old-fashioned 
style,  "Betsy  Baker."  They  laughed.  He  played  a  mili- 
tary inarch.  It  was  grand.  How  they  listened.  In  an 
instant  the  guitar  changed  to  a  wild  fantasia  on  the  flute, 
which  was  slyly  handed  him  by  Miss  Sarah  Warren.  It 
was  a  beauty,  and  before  they  knew  it,  he  was  giving 
them  the  interlude  on  the  piccolo.  He  finished  the  inter- 
lude away  up  in  the  clouds  somewhere.  Then  he  sat 
back  and  rested,  smiling  pleasantly,  while  the  audience 
made  long  continued  and  hearty  acknowledgments. 

The  doctor  said,  "Excuse  me,  my  friends,  I'm  dry." 
He  said  it  dryly.  "  I  must  have  a  glass  of  cider."  He 
held  out  an  imaginary  bottle  in  his  right  hand,  and  an 
imaginary  tumbler  in  his  left.  Then  he  made  an  imag- 
inary pull  on  the  cork,  which  came  out  with  a  loud  pop. 


178  THE   WILD   AKTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

He  made  believe  spill  some,  and  the  imaginary  cider 
gurgled  loudly  into  the  tumbler.  He  held  it  up,  canted 
his  head  on  one  side,  and  looked  at  it  smiling.  Then, 
with  wide  open  eyes,  and  the  greatest  gusto,  with  much 
noise  about  it,  he  took  the  imaginary  long  drink.  He 
leaned  back.  He  breathed  out  a  huge,  long  breath, 
with  Ah  !"  h  !  h  !  and  a  strong  blow,  then  saying,  in  a  big 
voice,  "That's  good  cider;  give  me  another."  It  was 
done  so  hugely  and  ponderously,  that  they  screamed  with 
laughter.  It  was  just  fun.  He  called  for  the  drum.  It 
was  brought.  It  had  been  previously  and  slyly  put  in 
order  in  the  back  cellar.  It  was  loaded  for  bear.  It 
was  a  fine  drum,  such  as  is  used  by  a  military  drum-corps. 

Miss  Emily  said,  "Now,  doctor,  please  wake  us  up 
with  the  drum ;  we  shall  all  go  to  sleep." 

He  took  the  drumsticks.  "  Want  to  be  waked  up, 
eh  ? "  He  began  a  double-trouble  fantasia  on  the  drum, 
enough  to  split  your  ears.  Then  he  changed,  and  if  you 
never  heard  a  first-class  drummer  drum,  you  can  have  no 
idea  of  the  grace,  rhythm,  and  expression  of  flim,  flam, 
and  flammadiddle,  that  he  put  into  that  blessed  drum. 
All  at  once  he  stopped,  as  if  scared,  exclaiming,  "  Hark  ! 
the  soldiers  are  coming."  In  an  instant  he  whistled, 
making  it  sound  afar  off,  but  coming  nearer,  and  louder, 
making  it  sound  like  fife  and  drum  approaching,  playing 
"  The  girl  I  left  behind  me."  It  was  a  fine  illusion.  The 
sound  grew,  until  it  was  present,  even  passing  the  house, 
and  feet  were  tramping  the  time,  in  simulated  march. 
Then  Roy  clapped  his  hands  to  cheer  the  soldiers,  while 
the  Misses  ,  Warren  waved  their  handkerchiefs  to  them, 
and  the  audience  took  the  cue  like  fire.  The  doctor 
whistled  and  drummed  furiously,  and  the  tramp,  the 


DE.   A.   C.    SMITH   AT   THE  ART   COTERIE.      179 

cheers,  and  Roy's  command,  "  Shoulder  arms !  "  liked  to 
killed  them.  It  was  realistic  beyond  all  reality.  Then 
Roy  and  the  Misses  Warren,  just  as  the  uproar  lulled  a 
bit,  waved  their  hands  for  hush;  the  soldiers  passed  on, 
the  distance  increased,  the  tramp  grew  fainter,  the  "Girl 
I  left  behind  me  "  went  farther  off,  the  drum  came  down 
to  a  far-off  sound,  and  all  the  imaginary  pageant  faded 
away. 

The  doctor  called  again.  "Hark!"  holding  up  his 
hand  in  command,  when  they  were  almost  painfully  still, 
he  said  in  a  low  voice,  and  with  a  solemn  face,  ruy 
friends,  a  funeral  is  coming.  It  is  a  Lancer.  Then  the 
imaginary  fife  whistled  Pleyel's  Hymn,  and  the  muffled 
drum  came  nearer,  nearer,  nearer.  It  was  passing  the 
house.  Oh,  the  solemn  muffled  drum.  They  held  their 
breaths  and  it  had  passed  on,  going  farther,  farther, 
farther  away,  until  it  died  out  in  the  distance.  Two  or 
three  of  the  ladies  really  shed  a  few  tears,  like  Job 
Trotter's  latest  effort,  real  water.  Then,  in  an  instant, 
when  they  were  discovered,  and  laughed  at,  they  laughed 
as  hearty  as  anybody.  "Oh,  man,  thou  pendulum  be- 
tween a  smile  and  a  tear." 

The  doctor  rested,  and  Miss  Sarah  Warren  played  a 
selection  upon  the  piano.  I  need  not  say  what  her 
reception  was.  The  violin  came  to  the  doctor.  He 
gave  selections  from  an  opera,  then  changing  to  the  old 
hornpipes  and  dances  of  fifty  or  a  hundred  years  ago,  he 
played  ever  so  many  pieces,  better  than  you  ever  heard 
them.  Said  he,  now  I  will  make  the  baby  cry.  He  did 
it.  It  was  a  dolorous  howl  but  ridiculously  natural. 
When  the  big  baby  had  cried  enough,  the  doctor  told 
him  to  go  to  sleep ;  the  imaginary  baby  said,  "  I  can't 


180  THE   WILD  ARTIST  IN   BOSTON. 

help  it,"  on  the  fiddle.  Dr.  Smith  allowed  the  audience 
to  call  for  old  airs,  and  he  knew  them  almost  all.  He 
played  that  old  fiddle  —  the  author  owns  it  now  —  with 
a  scamper  of  variations  from  the  bridge  to  the  nut.  Roy 
called  for  an  old  song.  It  was  perhaps  never  written 
before,  and  no  one  knows  how  old  it  is.  The  song  is 
remembered  entire  by  one  who  loves  the  doctor.  It  is 
given  here,  not  from  any  literary  merit,  but  as  a  speci- 
men of  the  olden  time,  and  as  it  was  prettily  and  wittily 
sung  by  Dr.  Smith.  It  is  called, 

"CASTLE  OVER  LYNN." 

THE  YOUNG  MAN  SINGS. 

"  Young  man,  are  you  going  to  Lynn, 

Castle  over  Lynn,  castle  lonely  ? 
Give  my  love  to  the  maid  therein. 

Keedle  oh,  keedle  oh,  tally  oh,  tally  oh, 

Castle  over  Lynn,  castle  lonely. 

"  Tell  her  to  buy  one  yard  of  cloth, 

Castle  over  Lynn,  castle  lonely. 
And  tell  her  to  make  me  a  shirt  thereof, 

Keedle  oh,  keedle  oh,  tally  oh,  tally  oh, 

Castle  over  Lynn,  castle  lonely. 

"  Tell  her  to  sew  it  up  without  any  seam, 

Castle  over  Lynn,  castle  lonely, 
And  never  to  take  one  stitch  therein, 

Keedle  oh,  keedle  oh,  tally  oh.  tally  oh, 

Castle  over  Lynn,  castle  lonely. 

"  Tell  her  to  wash  it  out  in  a  dry  well,    ' 

Castle  over  Lynn,  castle  lonely, 
Where  water  never  sprung  and  rain  never  fell, 
Keedle  oh,  keedle  oh,  tally  oh,  tally  oh, 

Castle  over  Lynn,  castle  lonely. 


DR.   A.   C.   SMITH   AT   THE  ART   COTERIE.      181 

"  Tell  her  to  hang  it  out  on  a  dry  thorn, 

Castle  over  Lynn,  castle  lonely, 
That  never  bore  a  leaf  since  Adam  was  born,  - 

Keedle  oh,  keedle  oh,  tally  oh,  tally  oh, 
Castle  over  Lynn,  castle  lonely. 

"  Tell  her  when  she  will  the  shirt  provide, 

Castle  over  Lynn,  castle  lonely, 
To  bring  it  up  to  me  and  she  shall  be  my  bride, 
Keedle  oh,  keedle  oh,  tally  oh,  tally  oh, 

Castle  over  Lynn,  castle  lonely." 

THEN  THE  MAID  SINGS. 

"  Young  man,  are  you  going  to  Cape  Ann, 

Castle  over  Lynn,  castle  lonely  ? 
Then  give  my  love  to  that  same  young  man, 
Keedle  oh,  keedle  oh,  tally  oh,  tally  oh, 

Castle  over  Lynn,  castle  lonely. 

"  Tell  him  to  buy  an  acre  of  land, 

Castle  over  Lynn,  castle  lonely, 
Between  the  salt  water  and  the  sea  sand, 
Keedle  oh,  keedle  oh,  tally  oh,  tally  oh, 

Castle  over  Lynn,  castle  lonely. 

"  Tell  him  to  plough  it  with  a  hog's  horn, 

Castle  over  Lynn,  castle  lonely, 
And  sow  it  all  down  with  one  peppercorn, 
Keedle  oh,  keedle  oh,  tally  oh,  tally  oh, 

Castle  over  Lynn,  castle  lonely. 

"  Tell  him  to  reap  it  with  one  penknife, 

Castle  over  Lynn,  castle  lonely, 
And  cart  it  all  in  with  two  little  mice, 

Keedle  oh,  keedle  oh,  tally  oh,  tally  oh, 

Castle  over  Lynn,  castle  lonely. 

"  Tell  him  to  thrash  it  out  with  a  goose-quill, 

Castle  over  Lynn,  castle  lonely, 
And  winnow  it  up  into  one  egg-shell, 


182  THE  WILD   ARTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

Keedle  oh,  keedle  oh,  tally  oh,  tally  oh, 
Castle  over  Lynn,  castle  lonely. 

"  Tell  him  when  he  has  done  his  work, 

Castle  over  Lynn,  castle  lonely, 
To  bring  it  up  to  me,  and  he  shall  have  his  shirt 

Keedle  oh,  keedle  oh,  tally  oh,  tally  oh, 
Castle  over  Lynn,  castle  lonely." 

The  oddity  of  the  old  song  pleased  them.  The  doctor 
got  it  when  he  was  a  boy.  Miss  Emily  handed  him  the 
fife  while  Miss  Sarah  had  the  drum  at  her  side  in  real 
military  fashion,  ready  to  mark  time.  The  doctor  said, 
Soldiers,  our  company  is  full  and  we  are  ordered  to  the 
war.  Massachusetts  expects  every  man  to  do  his  duty. 
Forward!  March!  It  was  Yankee  Doodle,  played  as 
few  have  ever  heard  it,  with  the  step  kept  by  the  doctor, 
the  Misses  Warren,  and  Roy.  Miss  Sarah  had  practised 
slyly  on  the  drum  and  surprised  them  all.  The  audience 
caught  on,  and  they  all  marched  triumphantly  off  to  the 
war,  almost.  Then  the  doctor  practised  a  few  capers  and 
quaint  old  tunes,  coming  back  to  "  The  girl  I  left  behind 
rne."  He  next  sang  a  song,  accompanying  himself  on 
his  "  bay  window,"  his  capacious  vest.  It  was  witty  in 
word,  funny  in  conceit,  and  jolly,  musical,  and  rhythmi- 
cal all  through.  The  "rocket  cheer"  was  called  for. 
Roy  said  some  knew  it,  and  all  would  after  one  trial. 
Nobody  ever  forgets  it.  There  was  a  low  clapping  of 
hands.  The  doctor  made  a  racket,  cried  out,  look  out ! 
and  began  a  terrible  hissing  of  the  rocket  going  up.  It 
grew  fainter  away  up  in  the  sky,  for  the  doctor  was  a  fine 
ventriloquist.  Then  it  burst  in  the  air  and  at  the  sight 
of  imaginary  stars  they  breathed  out  Oo  !  Oo  !  Oo  !  Then 
the  second  far-off  explosion  came,  with  imaginary  ser- 


DR.   A.   C.   SMITH   AT  THE  ART   COTERIE.      183 

pents  in  the  air,  and  all  Boston  Common  breathed  out 
Ah,  h,  h,  h.  Then  clapping  again.  They  all  knew  it 
now.  They  tried  it  again  and  again,  and  it  was  done. 
The  responses  came  in  a  voice  of  thunder.  Nor  was  it 
confined  to  the  house,  for  the  crowd  outside  prolonged 
the  cheering  vociferously.  Then  the  drum  rolled  again 
smartly,  and  Forward!  March!  in  a  field-officer  style  and 
the  whole  audience  tramped  the  time  through  Yankee 
Doodle. 

Said  the  doctor,  "  Mrs.  Warren,  what  do  you  keep  that 
dog  shut  up,  barking  all  the  evening,  for?" 

They  had  not  heard  it  before,  but  now  they  did. 
There  it  was  in  a  room  not  far  off.  Bow,  bow,  bow. 
He  barked  louder.  It  was  another  of  the  doctor's  illu- 
sions. He  called,  Rats  !  and  a  rat  squeaked.  The  women 
shrieked  and  jumped,  showing  signs  of  standing  on  chairs, 
holding  their  dress  about  their  feet.  Soon  they  laughed. 
Sold  again. 

Said  the  doctor,  "  The  last  selection  which  these  friends 
have  called  for  is,  '  Old  King  Coyne.' "  Now  this  piece 
is  full  of  acting.  When  he  spoke  of  a  thing  he  acted  it. 
It  was  a  real  play  on  an  imaginary  fiddle  or  a  real  beat  of 
an  imaginary  drum,  on  his  "bay  window."  He  imitated 
every  motion.  So  this  was  a  busy  piece  to  sing.  When 
the  women  yowl  out  in  the  last  stanza,  it  scares  them 
dreadfully,  and  they  all  hurry  through  most  comically. 
Words  can  hardly  reproduce  it.  Here  is  the  text :  — 

"OLD  KING  COYNE. 

"  Old  King  Coyne  he  called  for  his  wine, 
And  he  called  for  his  fiddlers  three ; 
And  every  fiddler  could  fiddle  well, 
For  a  very  fine  fiddle  had  he. 


184  THE   WILD   ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

'Twas  a  Yankee  doodle  tweedle,  said  the  fiddler. 
O  ne'er  was  a  maid  in  old  Scotland 
Could  play  such  tunes  as  these. 

"  Old  King  Coyne  he  called  for  his  wine, 
And  he  called  for  his  drummers  three ; 
And  every  drummer  could  drum  well, 
For  a  very  fine  drum  had  he. 
'Twas  a  rubadub  dub,  said  the  drummer, 
And  a  Yankee  doodle  tweedle,  said  tne  fiddler. 
O  ne'er  was  a  maid  in  old  Scotland 
Could  play  such  tunes  as  these. 

"  Old  King  Coyne  he  called  for  his  wine, 
And  he  called  for  his  fif ers  three ;  t 
And  every  fifer  could  fife  well, 
For  a  very  fine  fife  had  he. 
'Twas  a  rootle  tootle  tootle,  said  the  fifers, 
And  a  rubadub  dub,  said  the  drummer, 
And  a  Yankee  doodle  tweedle,  said  the  fiddler. 
O  ne'er  was  a  maid  in  old  Scotland 
Could  play  such  tunes  as  these. 

"  Old  King  Coyne  he  called  for  his  wine, 
And  he  called  for  his  harpers  three ; 
And  every  harper  could  harp  well, 
For  a  very  fine  hai-p  had  he. 
'Twas  a  plim  plim  plim,  said  the  harper, 
And  a  rootle  tootle  tootle,  said  the  fifer, 
And  a  rubadub  dub,  said  the  drummer, 
And  a  Yankee  doodle  tweedle,  said  the  fiddler. 
O  ne'er  was  a  maid  in  old  Scotland 
Could  play  such  tunes  as  these. 

"  Old  King  Coyne  he  called  for  his  wine, 
And  he  called  for  his  barbel's  three ; 
And  every  barber  could  shave  well, 
For  a  very  fine  razor  had  he. 
'Twas  a  hold  away  your  snout,  said  the  barber, 
And  a  plim  plim  plim,  said  the  harper, 


DE.    A.    C.    SMITH    AT   THE   AKT   COTEEfE.      185 

And  a  rootle  tootle  tootle,  said  the  fifer, 
And  a  rubadub  dub,  said  the  drummer, 
And  a  Yankee  doodle  tweedle,  said  the  fiddler. 
O  ne'er  was  a  maid  in  old  Scotland 
Could  play  such  tunes  as  these. 

"  Old  King  Coyne  he  called  for  his  wine, 
And  he  called  for  his  farmers  three  ; 
And  every  farmer  could  team  well, 
For  a  very  fine  team  had  he. 

'Twas  Hish  !  Haw  buck,  ye  divil,  said  the  farmer, 
And  a  hold  away  your  snout,  said  the  barber, 
And  a  plim  plim  plim,  said  the  harper, 
And  a  rootle  tootle  tootle,  said  the  fifer, 
And  a  rubadub  dub,  said  the  di'ummer, 
And  a  Yankee  doodle  tweedle,  said  the  fiddler. 
O  ne'er  was  a  maid  in  old  Scotland 
Could  play  such  tunes  as  these. 

"  Old  King  Coyne  he  called  for  his  wine, 
And  he  called  for  his  ministers  three ; 
And  every  minister  could  pray  well, 
For  a  very  fine  prayer  had  he. 
'Twas  a  Lord  'a'  massy  on  us,  said  the  ministers, 
And  Hish  !   Haw  buck,  ye  divil,  said  the  farmer, 
And  a  hold  away  your  snout,  said  the  barber, 
And  a  plim  plim  plim,  said  the  harper, 
And  a  rootle  tootle  tootle,  said  the  fifer, 
And  a  rubadub  dub,  said  the  drummer, 
And  a  Yankee  doodle  tweedle,  said  the  fiddler. 
O  ne'er  was  a  maid  in  old  Scotland 
Could  play  such  tunes  as  these. 

"  Old  King  Coyne  he  called  for  his  wine, 
And  he  called  for  his  sailors  three  ; 
And  every  sailor  could  swear  well, 
For  a  very  fine  oath  had  he. 
'Twas,  O  blarne  your  eyes,  said  the  sailor, 
0  Lord  'a'  massy  on  us,  said  the  ministers, 


186  THE   WILD   AKTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

And  Hish!  Haw  buck,  ye  divil,  said  the  farmer, 

And  a  hold  away  your  snout,  said  the  barber, 

And  a  plim  plim  plim,  said  the  harper, 

And  a  rootle  tootle  tootle,  said  the  lifer, 

And  a  rubadub  dub,  said  the  drummer, 

And  a  Yankee  doodle  tweedle,  said  the  fiddler. 

O  ne'er  was  a  maid  in  old  Scotland 

Could  play  such  tunes  as  these. 

"  Old  King  Coyne  he  called  for  his  wine, 
And  he  called  for  his  women  three  ; 
And  eATery  woman  could  scold  well, 
For  a  very  fine  clack  had  she. 
'Twas  Yaah !  yaah  !  yaah  !  said  the  women  (this  scares 

them  all), 

O  blame  your  eyes,  said  the  sailors, 
O  Lord  'a'  massy  on  us,  said  the  ministers, 
O  Hish  !  Haw  buck,  ye  divil,  said  the  farmer, 
And  a  hold  away  your  snout,  said  the  barber, 
And  a  plim  plim  plim,  said  the  harper, 
And  a  rootle  tootle  tootle,  said  the  fifers, 
And  a  rubadub  dub,  said  the  drummer, 
And  a  Yankee  doodle  tweedle,  said  the  fiddler. 
O  ne'er  was  a  maid  in  old  Scotland 
Could  play  such  tunes  as  these." 

The  clack  of  the  women  had  scared  them  ridiculously. 
His  imitations  were  very  funny.  There  was  one  old  fel* 
low  there  that  no  one  ever  had  known  to  laugh.  But  he 
let  out  a  Haw !  Haw !  Haw !  that  caught  like  an 
epidemic.  The  Coterie  had  heard  the  oddest,  queerest 
entertainment  in  life.  I  cannot  begin  to  do  it  justice,  on 
paper.  Many  who  read  this,  will  begin  and  read  with  a 
smile,  Avhich  will  cloud  up  to  tears,  and  they  will  end  at 
Dr.  Smith's  grave,  in  the  cemetery  at  Reading,  Mass.  It 
is  a  break  to  put  it  in  here. 

The  doctor  said  at  the  close,  "  I  thank  you,  friends.    I 


DE.   A.   C.   SMITH  AT  THE  ART   COTEEIE.      187 

have  never  had  an  audience  who  were  more  in  sympathy 
with  me.  A  little  fun  is  good.  The  rocket  cheer,  the 
way  you  do  it,  is  grand.  If  anybody  says  that  artists 
are  not  sympathetic  and  appreciative,  I  shall  go  for 
them."  He  bowed.  Roy  called  for  a  vote  of  thanks.  It 
was  given  with  a  will.  Now,  Miss  Sarah  Warren,  please 
take  the  piano,  and  we  will  sing  — 

"  Over  the  mountain  wave, 
See  where  they  come ! " 

Copies  were  furnished :  the  simple  song  was  grandly 
sung.  There  were  many  fine  singers  present,  some  from 
several  choirs,  well  known  in  Boston,  and  as  the  last 
notes  died  away,  there  came  to  each  a  feeling,  O  how 
much  comfort  there  is  in  common  accomplishments,  when 
so  magnificently  done.  Theodore  Parker  once  said, 
"  You  strike  flint  and  steel  together,  and  you  get  fire. 
You  strike  two  pieces  of  ice  together,  and  you  get  noth- 
ing but  cold  splinters." 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

• 

EOT  COMES  TO  GRIEF. 

ROY  sat  in  his  studio  and  thought  over  the  situation. 
He  thought  whether  he  ought  to  be  satisfied  with  his 
progress  as  an  artist,  or  not.  He  had  not  really  gained  a 
large  sura  in  three  years  or  more,  beside  all  his  previous 
study  in  art.  Still,  by  taking  his  real  estate  venture  into 
the  account,  with  some  other  sources  of  advantage,  he  had 
done  well.  He  had  about  a  thousand  dollars  in  the  Dover 
Savings  Bank  and  had  not  drawn  a  dollar.  He  felt  that 
to  be  an  anchor  of  safety,  if  he  should  break  a  leg,  or  get 
a  snowslide  that  smashed  him  down,  or  get  an  acute 
sickness,  or  get  sued,  or  see  a  sure  chance  to  make  a  pile 
at  a  small  risk,  when  he  might  need  a  few  hundred  dol- 
lars in  a  hurry.  Oh,  he  was  cautious,  Roy  was.  Tom, 
Dick  and  Harry  did  not  know  that  he  had  means.  So  he 
was  not  teased  to  death,  to  cast  it  into  the  bottomless  pit, 
by  lending  it  to  irresponsible  persons.  His  parents  knew 
all  about  it,  and  all  his  affairs.  Miss  Graham  knew  some, 
and  Roy  knew  her  to  be  prudent  and  safe.  His  pupils 
were  many  and  good  pay.  Yes,  he  was  satisfied  with 
what  he  had  done  and  he  wanted  to  do  more. 

Miss  Graham  painted  well.  Not  quite  as  well  as  he, 
but  too  well  to  have  any  need  of  paying  him  for  lessons. 
She  was  gaining  all  the  time.  So  was  he.  Hardly  a 
week  passed  that  one  of  them  did  not  take  one  or  two 

188 


ROY  COMES   TO   GRIEF.  189 

lessons  from  some  fine  artist  in  Boston.  They  learned 
what  colors  were  safe,  what  were  changeable,  what  would 
fade,  and  what  were  solid  and  permanent.  There  is  a 
great  deal  of  treacherous  color  for  sale.  Sometimes  it 
was  a  lesson  from  Mr.  S.  L.  Gerry,  or  Mr.  Benjamin 
Champney,  or  Mr.  A.  T.  Bricher,  or  Mr.  J.  M.  Stone,  or 
Mr.  J.  W.  A.  Scott,  or  Mr.  J.  J.  Enneking,  or  Mr.  C.  F. 
Pierce  in  cattle  or  sheep,  or  Mr.  E.  L.  Caster  in  portrait. 
As  they  always  paid  cash,  and  did  as  they  would  be  done 
by,  in  criticism,  they  were  welcome  everywhere.  I  know 
of  no  place  where  the  golden  rule  is  so  much  needed  as 
in  art  criticism.  It  was  good  medicine  for  Roy  that  Miss 
Graham  was  there.  Although  he  was  awake,  yet  he  had 
to  keep  his  eyes  open  tight,  or  like  many  a  boy  in  a  spell- 
ing class,  he  would  have  had  the  chagrin  of  seeing  a  little 
woman  walk  right  in  ahead  of  him.  He  had  no  idea  of 
that,  so  he  kept  gaining,  often  producing  a  picture  that 
was  a  surprise  to  himself  and  to  her. 

I  said  he  was  sitting,  thinking.  When  a  wide-awake 
Yankee  sits  squarely  down  and  makes  a  business  of  think- 
ing, something  ought  to  come  of  it.  He  spoke.  "  Miss 
Graham,"  said  he,  "I  have  quite  a  lot  of  pictures  on 
hand.  They  gain  on  me.  What  luck  ought  I  to  have,  if 
I  sell  my  pictures  at  auction  ?  " 

Miss  Graham  thought  a  moment  and  replied,  "  You 
ought  to  have  good  success.  But  I  cannot  advise  you, 
whether  you  will  or  not.  I  will  help  you  all  I  can.  It 
may  amount  to  something,  or  not." 

Roy  said  he  would  look  it  up,  and  he  thought  he  would 
have  the  sale,  and  risk  it. 

He  reported  the  process  to  Miss  Graham,  step  by  step. 
He  laid  out  fifty  pictures,  from  six  by  eight  inches  in 


190  THE   WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

size,  to  one  pair  thirty  by  fifty.  McLondon's  commission 
was  eleven  per  cent.  Roy  would  have  to  frame  them  all 
and  the  pictures  would  have  to  be  sold  with  the  frames. 
Roy  would  have  the  bill  for  the  advertising  and  catalogue 
to  pay.  McLondon  wrote  the  advertisements,  and  for 
several  days,  they  were  in  half  a  dozen  papers.  The  pict- 
ures were  hung  and  on  exhibition  four  days.  The  sale 
was  to  be  on  Thursday,  at  two  o'clock.  The  number  that 
examined  the  collection  was  good.  Some  of  Roy's  pupils 
were  in  to  look,  and  they  reported  that  the  criticism  was 
kindly. 

The  pictures  seemed  to  be  well  liked,  and  several  peo- 
ple were  there  who  seemed  to  be  looking  to  buy.  Some 
of  them  had  taken  the  names  and  numbers  on  cards  and 
slips.  It  looked  rather  favorable.  More  than  this,  some 
one  had  caused  to  be  inserted  in  the  Transcript,  a  notice 
containing  one  very  mild  criticism,  and  considerable  hon- 
est, judicious  praise  of  this  artist's  work,  and  of  this  sale 
especially.  Roy  wondered  who  had  paid  for  it.  It  must 
have  been  paid  for.  He  asked  the  Warrens,  and  they 
said  squarely  they  did  not  know.  He  asked  Miss  Graham 
but  she  said  she  could  not  help  him  any.  He  thought  it 
might  be  Gardner  Brewer  or  S.  R.  Knights,  but  he  did 
not  find  out  .that  it  was.  He  reckoned  that  if  he  could 
only  realize  ten  dollars  each  on  fifty  pictures,  that  would 
be  five  hundred  dollars  and  he  ouo-ht  to  do  that  above  all 

O 

expenses.  Why  !  There  were  two  that  ought  to  bring  a 
hundred  each  with  the  frame,  easily.  There  were  twenty 
that  might  bring  fifty  each.  It  looked  sure  every  way. 
He  expected  but  little  and  it  might  be  a  bonanza.  Roy 
had  cleaned  and  varnished  every  picture  that  needed  it, 
and  Miss  Graham  had  helped  splendidly.  She  was  one 


KOY  COMES   TO   GRIEF.  191 

of  those  faithful  souls  that  follow  out  the  wisdom  of 
Charles  Dickens's  speech,  which  he  made  at  a  visit  to  a 
school,  at  his  last  visit  to  the  United  States.  "Boys,  do 
all  the  good  you  can,  and  make  no  fuss  about  it."  It  is 
Bible  boiled  down  to  a  diamond  solid.  Roy's  pictures 
were  well  framed.  He  had  about  a  dozen  on  hand  in  the 
studio.  The  remainder  he  had  made  to  order.  They 
were  all  good  gold  frames,  though  some  of  them  were  not 
very  heavy."  He  got  them  of  a  frame-maker,  and  at  a 
satisfactory  rate.  The  day  of  sale  came.  McLondon 
sold  furniture  in  a  part  of  the  large  auction  rooms,  until 
two  o'clock,  the  hour  of  the  pictui'e  sale.  Still  he  kept 
on  selling  furniture.  There  was  quite  a  crowd  present. 
At  ten  minutes  past  two  some  one  asked  the  auctioneer, 
"When  do  you  sell  the  pictures?"  Very  soon,  he  said. 
Here  is  a  small  lot  of  furniture  to  be  closed  out,  and  then 
come  the  pictures.  He  kept  on  selling  furniture.  Roy 
was  conscious  of  being  defrauded.  Twenty  minutes 
passed.  Some  began  to  leave.  The  public  is  an  animal 
that  won't  bear  being  fooled  with.  Whoever  tries  it 
is  apt  to  find  out  their  mistake.  Still  selling  furniture  at 
half  past  two.  Strangers  shot  angry  glances  at  McLon- 
don. At  a  quarter  of  three  he  desisted  and  announced  : 
"  And  now,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  we  sell  the  pictures." 
Half  the  audience  were  gone.  Others  felt  that  it  would 
be  spiting  the  auctioneer  not  to  bid  at  all,  and  they  did 
not  bid.  The  pictures  went  low,  often  less  than  the  price 
of  the  frames.  Roy  was  present  at  the  sale.  There  was 
to  be  no  limit  on  anything  whatever.  Miss  Graham  was 
there  also.  She  was  pale  and  without  a  smile.  As  soon 
as  she  saw  the  pictures  begin  to  sell  below  the  price  of 
the  frames,  she  began  to  bid.  She  knew  the  value  of 


192  THE   WILD   AKTIST  IN   BOSTON. 

every  frame.  If  a  frame  was  not  a  new  one  she  allowed 
it  to  go  for  less.  Roy  took  his  punishment  like  a  man. 
There  were  not  over  fifty  people  present,  and  three  or 
four  of  these  were  Irish  second-hand  furniture  dealers, 
who  only  bought  at  half  the  price  of  the  frames.  The 
sale  went  on.  Miss  Graham  had  bought  eight  pictures. 
The  second-hand  dealers  looked  hard  at  her.  Thirty  pict- 
ures had  been  sold.  Said  McLondon  to  Miss  Graham, 
"Lady,  are  you  bidding  in  pictures  for  Mr.  Bartlett?" 
"No,  sir,  indeed  I  am  not.  I  am  buying  these  pictures 
to  sell  again.  I  can  easily  get  five  times  what  I  pay  for 
them.  The  money  is  all  ready  to  pay  for  them,  sir,  as 
soon  as  the  sale  is  done." 

The  sale  went  on  at  about  the  price  of  the  frames. 
Miss  Graham  bought  in  all,  twenty  pictures.  The  frames 
were  all  new,  the  most  tasty  patterns,  and  in  most  cases 
the  pictures  were  Roy's  most  careful  studies.  The  two 
that  were  thirty  by  fifty  inches,  came  to  Miss  Graham,  at 
twelve  and  fourteen  dollars  each.  Her  bill  was  two  hun- 
dred dollars.  It  was  less  than  the  cost  of  the  frames. 
Bad  as  the  sale  was,  she  had  saved  him  a  hundred  dol- 
lars. She  went  not  to  the  studio  again  that  day.  Just 
at  night,  a  furniture  team  from  the  West  bay  came  to 
McLondon's  auction  room,  called  for  Miss  Graham's  bill, 
paid  the  two  hundred  dollai-s,  and  took  the  pictures. 
The  frames  had  been  hard  used.  One  of  the  smaller 
pictures  had  a  long  scratch  across  it.  One  had  a  corner 
dented  into  it,  that  made  a  dimple  enough  to  spoil  it, 
and  one  of  the  thirty  by  fifty  sizes  had  a  slit  in  it  six 
inches  long.  The  whole  thing  was  enough  to  make 
angels  weep,  and  Satan  tear  his  hair.  The  pictures  all 
went,  and  well  they  might  at  the  price. 


KOY   COMES    TO   GKTEF.  193 

Roy  called  at  the  counting-room.  Melowney,  McLon- 
don's  clerk,  told  him  to  call  next  Thursday  morning,  and 
he  would  get  his  money.  It  took  about  a  week  to  make 
up  the  account.  At  any  rate,  it  is  good  to  give  a  victim 
a  week  to  let  his  expectations  evaporate,  and  bring  him 
into  a  more  receptive  condition,  and  glad  to  get  anything 
'whatever.  Reader,  I  am  writing  a  realistic  novel.  The 
fact  is,  that  this  is  just  as  it  happened,  and  is  real,  with 
no  "  istic"  or  novel  about  it.  I  have  seen  it  worse  than  I 
have  written  it.  I  know  just  what  I  am  talking  about. 
I  know  just  as  true,  kind,  honest  auctioneers,  as  good 
men  as  are  in  the  world,  and  most  useful.  And  I  have 
met  some  that  the  devil  Avould  blush  to  own  as  an  ac- 
quaintance. I  have  known  an  artist  take  many  thousand 
dollars  for  a  two-days  sale  of  pictures,  fifty  pictures  each 
day.  I  have  known  a  fair  artist  have  far  worse  usage 
than  Roy  Bartlett,  both  in  the  management  and  the  re- 
sult. 

The  next  day  Roy  was  in  his  studio  on  time.  He  was, 
if  anything,  a  little  better  dressed,  a  little  handsomer, 
quite  as  smiling,  and,  what  he  did  not  often  do  except  on 
coterie  night  or  festive  occasions,  he  had  a  bouquet  on  his 
coat,  carnation  pinks.  He  was  a  daisy.  He  might  have 
been  a  lady-killer,  but  the  fact  that  he  presides  in  this 
book,  is  assurance  that  he  was  not. 

Miss  Graham  came  at  nine.  She  was  just  her  own 
pleasant,  smiling,  sweet  self,  or  perhaps  a  shaving  more 
so.  I  can  say  no  better  than  that.  It  is  the  superlative 
degree  before  they  develop  wings.  They  were  glad  to 
see  each  other  again.  The  time  since  yesterday  seemed 
long.  They  were  glad  it  was  over.  Now  for  work. 

Said  Roy,  "  Miss  Graham,  I  wish  to  go  out  to  make  a 


194  THE    WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

call.  I  shall  be  gone  only  a  few  minutes.  If  pupils  come 
in,  please  to  look  out  for  them  until  I  return." 

He  went  out.  He  called  upon  a  young  lawyer  in 
School  Street,  a  Mr.  Edric  Lyman,  whom  he  had  known 
in  Dover.  Roy  stated  the  facts  concerning  the  sale,  and 
all  about  it.  He  asked  if  he  had  any  remedy.  The  law- 
yer thought  a  moment,  and  answered.  You  had  better 
not  consider  whether  you  need  a  remedy,  or  not,  until 
you  get  a  settlement  with  McLondon.  Don't  sign  a  re- 
ceipt in  full  of  all  demands.  But  I  do  not  think  McLon- 
don will  offer  you  one.  He  will  offer  you  a  statement 
of  the  result,  with  a  balance  due  you  which  you  can  sign 
a  receipt  for.  When  you  get  your  money,  call  again. 
Roy  went  to  work.  Pupils  were  well  cared  for,  and  good 
results  came  from  that  forenoon's  work.  Miss  Graham 
had  a  little  lunch  with  her,  and  took  it  quietly  in  her 
corner.  Roy  went  out  to  lunch. 

While  he  was  gone,  a  man  came  in  and  asked  per- 
mission to  see  the  pictures.  Miss  Graham  said  Mr. 
Bartlett  had  none  done.  She  had  a  few.  She  showed 
them.  One  was  a  good  landscape.  He  asked  the  price. 
She  had  done  her  best  on  it.  She  would  sell  it  for 
twenty  dollars.  He  handed  her  a  new  twenty-dollar 
bill,  took  the  picture,  would  not  have  it  done  up,  and 
went  away. 

Another  knock  on  the  door.  Miss  Graham  answered 
it.  A  man  inquired  for  Mr.  Bartlett,  the  man  that 
paints  picters.  He  was  gone  out,  but  would  be  in  again 
soon.  Be  you  his  wife?  Miss  Graham's  face  fairly 
blazed,  she  blushed  so.  But  she  answered  with  dignity, 
No,  sir.  He  is  no  relation  of  mine  whatever.  I  am  his 
pupil.  I  beg  your  pardon,  marm,  I  meant  no  offence. 


ROY  COMES   TO   GBIEF.  195 

Just  then  Mr.  Bartlett  came  in  and  saw  the  man,  and 
Miss  Graham  went  to  her  easel. 

He  said,  "I  bought  one  of  them  picters  of  yourn.  My 
wife  used  to  paint  some  before  we  were  married,  an'  she 
wants  a  mate  to  the  one  I  bought.  It  is  twenty  by  thirty. 
I'm  a  teamster.  I  dunno  nothin'  about  picters,  but  I  like 
'em  well  enough,  and  I  can  afford  one  or  two  for  such  a 
woman  as  mine.  Will  you  paint  a  mate  to  it,  same  size, 
some  subject  suitable  for  a  mate  to  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  Roy. 

"When'll  ye  have  it  done?" 

"  In  two  weeks." 

"All  right.     Same  price  as  the  other,  of  course?" 

Said  Roy,  "What  was  that?" 

"  Ten  dollars." 

"Not  by  considerable.     The  frame  cost  fifteen." 

"  Wai,  that's  queer,"  said  the  teamster.  "  Pooty  queer 
for  a  man  to  have  two  prices  for  his  pictures." 

Said  Roy,  "  Those  pictures  were  put  in  that  auction 
room  with  the  expectation  that  they  would  realize  from 
four  to  eight  times  as  much  as  they  brought.  It  was  your 
luck  to  get  one.  But  I  do  not  believe  that  you  will  ever, 
in  your  life,  get  a  picture  of  mine,  which  I  can  easily  sell 
for  thirty  dollars,  and  a  frame  which  I  paid  fifteen  for,  — 
forty-five  dollars  in  all,  — for  ten  dollars.  I  will  give  you 
twenty  dollars  for  your  picture  and  frame." 

The  man  reflected  a  moment,  then  said,  "  Wai,  it  is  so, 
come  to  look  at  it,  ain't  it  ?  Then  you  must  have  lost 
some  money  yesterday." 

"  I  did,"  said  Roy. 

"Wai,  it  is  too  bad.  I'm  sorry.  What  would  ye 
charge  for  a  good  mate  to  the  one  I  had  ?  " 


196  THE  WILD  ARTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

Said  Roy,  "I  can  get  the  frame  made  for  you  at  cost, 
fifteen  dollars,  as  it  is  not  a  very  heavy  one.  I  will 
paint  you  the  picture  for  thirty  more,  and  give  you  a  good 
mate  for  yours.  Don't  do  it  if  you  do  not  want  to,  or  if 
you  cannot  afford  it." 

Said  the  man,  "  Wai,  now,  I  shall  jest  do  it.  Here's 
my  card.  Please  have  the  picter  and  frame  ready  in  two 
weeks  from  to-day.  An'  say,  you  must  need  money.  I 
vow,  here's  yer  forty-five  dollars.  Now  give  me  a  good 
one."  Then,  turning  to  Miss  Graham,  he  said,  "  Lady,  I 
hope  you  won't  notice  my  rough  ways.  I  don't  mean  to 
be  rough  to  any  of  God's  creaturs,  leastways  to  a 
woman." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  said  Miss  Graham. 

He  was  gone. 

"Thank  God  for  a  man  !  "  said  Roy. 

"Amen!  "  said  Miss  Graham,  smiling. 

The  teamster  got  his  picture,  and  it  suited  him  and  his 
wife.  It  was  not  the  last  that  he  bought  for  himself,  or 
sold  for  Hoy  either.  "Luck  for  both  of  us,"  said  Miss 
Graham. 

"What?"  he  asked. 

Then  she  showed  her  twenty-dollar  bill,  and  told  of 
the  sale  she  had  made.  It  was  Roy's  turn  to  be  pleased. 

"  Now,"  said  Roy,  "  it  is  my  turn  to  talk  to  you.  You 
saved  me  money  on  my  sale,  or  give-away,  as  McLondon 
managed  it.  You  paid  two  hundred  dollars  in  cash,  for 
pictures  and  frames.  I  will  take  them  all  of  you,  and  pay 
you  the  cash,  if  you  will  allow  me  to.  You  must  have 
borrowed  the  money  to  pay  for  them,  and  it  must  make 
you  cruelly  short.  Shall  I  send  for  them?" 

She   answered :    "  You   need    not    worry  at  all  about 


ROY   COMES   TO   GEIEF.  197 

my  being  short  of  money,  for  I  have  something  from  my 
uncle  every  month.  I  have  sold  pictures  for  good  priceSj 
and  I  had  the  money  to  pay  for  all -I  bought.  You  can 
take  any  one,  any  time  you  can  sell  it,  and  return  just 
what  it  cost  me,  and  no  more.  But  had  you  not  better 
select  the  best  subjects,  paint  slowly  and  carefully  some 
new  pictures,  and  let  the  old  ones  go  by?  I  am  willing 
to  keep  them.  I  want  some  of  them  to  hang  in  the 
house.  My  uncle  will  charge  them  to  the  estate,  and  I 
shall  be  paid  for  them  at  a  profit." 

Roy  concluded  to  let  them  remain.  He  also  concluded 
that  Miss  Graham  had  the  best  of  common-sense,  was  a 
good  manager,  and  would  always  do  the  best  that  could 
be  done. 

He  got  his  account  of  the  sale  from  McLondon.  It 
was  thus  :  — 

50  pictures  sold  on  account  of  R.  Bartlett .     .      500.20 

Advertising,  per  bills 49.90 

Commission,  11  per  cent 55.02 

200  fancy  linen  catalogues    .     .     .     .      65.28 

170.20      170.20 


Cash  paid  R.  Bartlett 330.00 

Roy  signed  a  receipt  to  that  statement,  took  his  check 
and  a  copy  of  the  statement  to  Edric  Lyman's  office,  in 
School  Street.  The  lawyer  looked  hard  at  it,  but  did  not 
keep  Roy  waiting,  to  show  his  own  importance,  the  intri- 
cacy of  the  case,  or  the  general  ponderosity  of  the  law. 
He  took  a  little  time  to  consider  it,  and  went  into  it,  like 
a  sharp,  wide-awake  "New  Hampshire  Yankee,  as  he  was. 

He  spoke  :  "  Mr.  Bartlett,  you  have  been  used  badly. 


198  THE  WILD  ARTIST   IX  BOSTON. 

Swindled  outrageously.  Still  an  auction  sale  of  pictures 
is  a  chance  for  an  accident.  But  your  sale  was  put  off 
three  quarters  of  an  hour,  until  your  audience,  that  you 
had  paid  heavily  for,  had  largely  gone,  and  the  remainder 
nettled,  and  made  cross,  so  they  would  not  buy.  You 
ought  to  have  substantial  damages,  but  you  cannot  get 
them.  I  have  had  an  experience  with  McLondon  before. 
He  is  slippery.  You  cannot  hold  him.  lie  has  no  real 
estate.  Plis  wife  has.  She  has  a  bank  account.  You 
cannot  even  tell  him  your  opinion  of  him.  It  is  a  right- 
eous opinion.  He  would  sue  you.  He  might  collect. 
You  have  real  estate.  I  read  the  deed  in  the  registry. 
You  can  collect  nothing  in  my  opinion.  I  will  give  you 
Peter  Parley's  prescription  for  the  gout,  '  Grin  and  bear 
it.'  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  be  of  real  comfort  and  redress 
to  you,  for  I  know  you  have  been  swindled.  Hereafter 
take  care  and  look  out  who  you  deal  with." 

Roy  took  out  his  pocket-book.  "How  much  is  to 
pay,  sir?" 

"  Nothing  whatever.  You  have  paid  too  much,  now. 
When  you  want  advice  call  in.  If  it  is  legal  advice  that 
saves  or  collects  money  or  value  for  you,  I  will  make 
a  moderate  charge  for  it.  Otherwise  make  me  a  social 
call,  ask  me  any  questions  on  law  or  anything  else  and  I 
shall  be  glad  to  answer  free.  That  is  the  way  I  do  busi- 
ness, and  make  friends  and  money.  If  you  see  any  one 
wronged  or  robbed  of  their  just  rights,  send  them  to  me, 
and  I  will  make  the  best  fight  I  can  for  them,  whether  I 
get  paid  or  not." 

Roy  thanked  him,  and  said  he  would  do  it.  He  did, 
faithfully.  He  went  back  and  told  the  story  to  Miss 
Graham. 


ROY  COMES  TO   GEIEF.  199 

She  said,  "It  seems  to  me  you  have  met  another 
whole-souled  man." 

" Yes,"  said  Roy,  "he  is.  Thank  God  for  an  honest 
lawyer." 

Miss  Graham  took  his  name  and  address  for  possible 
future  use. 

Roy  had  his  figures  now.  His  frames  for  his  fifty  pict- 
ures, including  a  fair  valuation  on  some  not  quite  new, 
made  the  amount  just  six  hundred  dollars.  He  received 
from  McLondon  just  three  hundred  and  thirty.  So  he 
had  sunk  just  two  hundred  arid  seventy  dollars  in  cash 
and  given  away  fifty  pictures  for  nothing.  He  was  at 
least  a  thousand  dollars  out.  Miss  Graham  asked  if  he 
had  money  to  provide  for  it.  She  had  disposed  of  some 
of  those  she  had  bought  and  he  could  have  a  hundred 
dollars  as  well  as  not.  She  should  not  use  it.  He  said 
no.  He  was  greatly  obliged,  but  could  get  along,  and 
by  industry  should  soon  get  over  his  loss,  while  the  ex- 
perience was  worth  money  to  him.  He  never  should  for- 
get it. 

The  next  morning  two  new  pupils  came,  both  ladies. 
They  paid  for  twelve  lessons  in  advance.  Miss  Graham 
chanced  to  know  them.  She  knew  them  to  be  suitable 
people,  and  they  at  once  received  their  invitation  to  the 
Art  Coterie.  It  was  partly  what  they  came  for.  There 
were  eight  pupils  at  work  in  the  studio  beside  Miss 
Graham  and  Roy.  There  was  a  knock  on  the  door. 
Roy  opened  it.  A  well  dressed  man  of  medium  height 
was  there.  He  had  on  a  nice  silk  hat,  plenty  of  jewelry, 
and  the  general  air  of  a  man  of  substance.  He  spoke 
loudly.  "I  want  to  see  Bartlett,  that  sold  the  calamity 
pictures  at  McLondon's." 


200  THE   WILD   ARTIST  IN   BOSTON. 

Roy  answered,  "  I  am  Mr.  Bartlett." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  bought  a  picture  there  for  an  oil  painting. 
It  was  on  your  catalogue  as  an  oil  painting,  number  fif- 
teen. It  is  no  oil  painting  at  all,  sir,  only  a  cheap  chromo. 
I  consider  you  a  fraud,  a  swindler,  and  a  scoundrel." 
He  raised  his  voice  high  and  loud  so  that  all  Roy's  pupils 
heard  him,  and  many  others  in  the  building.  Roy  was 
angry.  He  was  strongly  tempted  to  smash  his  face,  and  ' 
he  could  have  done  it,  and  not  much  harm  come  of  it, 
but  the  Bartlett  brains  prevailed,  and  he  did  not. 
"  Where  is  your  picture,  sii  ?  "  "  At  my  house.  It  is  a 
chromo.  My  wife  says  it  is,  and  she  has  painted  some. 
She  knows  it." 

Says  Roy,  "  Now  please  give  me  your  address.  I  will 
send  a  messenger  to  your  house  and  if  you  have  suffered 
any  wrong  or  loss  by  me,  I  will  make  it  good." 

The  man  gave  his  name  and  habitation. 

"  Where  is  your  place  of  business,  sir  ?  If  it  is  nearer 
than  your  home  on  Columbus  Avenue,  I  can  send  you 
word  there." 

He  reflected  a  moment,  and  then  gave  Roy  his  place  of 
business.  It  was  a  firm  well  situated  and  doing  well. 
Roy  stepped  inside  the  studio  again.  He  said  to  the 
ladies  present :  "  Ladies,  there  is  not  the  slightest  ground 
for  this  outrage.  Miss  Graham  will  remember  number 
fifteen  on  my  catalogue.  He  bought  it  for  less  than  the 
price  of  the  frame.  Of  course  no  artist  i-n  Boston  or  else- 
where ever  sells  a  chromo  for  an  oil  painting.  Miss 
Graham,  will  you  please  write  in  ink,  the  date,  the  hour 
of  the  day,  the  names  of  the  pupils  present,  with  their 
addresses,  and  keep  it  as  your  property.  I  may  need  it." 

Then  Roy  went   out,  and  called  on  Lawyer  Lyinan 


ROY   COMES   TO   GRIEF.  201 

again.  He  was  in.  Roy  told  his  story  and  the  lawyer 
laughed  heartily.  He  said,  "  If  folks  did  not  make  fools 
of  themselves,  what  would  we  poor  lawyers  do!"  Roy 
could  not  come  to  laugh  at  it  yet.  He  was  too  much 
provoked. 

"  Seriously,  Mr.  Bartlett,  I  do  not  think  you  can 
collect  much,  if  anything  from  him,  for  calling  you 
names,  unless  you  can  prove  that  you  have  sustained  real 
loss  therefrom.  Now  if  you  can  prove  that  your  pupils 
left  you,  or  other  veal  loss  came  to  you,  then  you  can 
force  him  to  pay.  But  I  guess  I  can  get  you  some  satis- 
faction if  I  do  not  get  you  much  money.  Mr.  Bartlett, 
'where  do  you  get  your  artist's  materials?" 

"  At  F.  C.  Hastings  &  Co.'s  sometimes,  and  sometimes 
at  C.  J.  Edmands's." 

Lawyer  Lyman  took  the  man's  address  and  would  re- 
port to  Roy.  He  got  one  of  the  clerks  from  the  artist's 
materials  store  to  go  with  him  at  once  to  the  man's 
house,  in  Columbus  Avenue.  The  wife  was  at  home. 
The  picture  was  shown.  It  was  taken  from  the  frame. 
The  clerk  looked  at  it  and  smiled.  Said  he,  "  This  is  a 
Winsor  and  Newton  canvas.  I  covered  it  myself.  The 
picture  is  signed  by  Roy  Bartlett.  It  is  a  beautiful 
dainty  signature.  It  is  not  a  chromo.  It  is  a  fine  oil 
painting,  worth  about  twenty-five  dollars  or  more.  The 
frame  must  have  cost  eight  or  ten." 

The  lawyer  held  the  picture  up  to  the  light,  saying, 
"  See,  lady,  see  the  brush  marks.  See  the  linen  canvas. 
See  the  store  mark  on  the  stretcher,  are  you  satisfied  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am.  But  it  looked  so  smooth  and  shiny,  I 
thought  it  was  too  good  to  be  an  oil  painting.  I  am 
sorry,  I  declare." 


202  THE   WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

"  Yes,"  said  Lawyer  Lyman,  "  it  is  very  bad.  I  will 
give  fifteen  dollars  for  what  he  bought  for  six.  It  is  a 
view  in  Dover,  New  Hampshire.  I  know  the  place. 
And  your  husband  went  to  that  large  building,  and  be- 
fore many  witnesses,  and  in  the  presence  of  several 
ladies  who  live  in  and  about  Commonwealth  Avenue, 
he  in  a  very  loud  voice  denounced  the  artist  as  a  fraud, 
a  swindler,  and  a  scoundrel.  I  have  long  known  this 
artist  as  a  gentleman,  the  soul  of  honor,  incapable  of 
a  wrong  act.  Now  here  is  my  card.  I  am  Mr.  Bartlett's 
lawyer.  If  your  husband  comes  to  my  office  before  ten 
o'clock  to-morrow  morning,  he  can  settle.  Mr.  Bartlett 
does  not  propose  to  submit  to  such  an  outrage.  If  he 
does  not  come  I  am  ordered  to  bring  a  suit  at  once,  and 
the  whole  outrage  will  be  in  the  newspapers.  There  are 
twenty  or  more  witnesses.  That  is  all.  He  cannot  af- 
ford to  let  such  awful  blunders  as  that  go  before  a 
jury." 

The  woman  was  pale  and  trembling.  She  had  been 
the  cause  of  it.  The  lawyer  went  back  to  his  office.  He 
asked  the  clerk  to  remain  on  the  corner,  in  a  store,  a  few 
minutes,  and  see  if  a  woman  left  the  house.  He  got 
back  to  Lyman's  office  almost  as  soon  as  he  did,  and  re- 
ported that  the  woman  went  out.-  In  a  little  over  an 
hour  the  man  came  in  to  the  lawyer's  office,  looking  rather 
sober.  He  began,  "  You  were  at  my  house  about  that 
chromo,  er,  oil  painting  I  mean." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  was.  Take  a  seat,  sir.  That  chromo  is  a 
fine,  carefully  studied  oil  painting,  a  view  in  Dover,  near 
Mr.  Bartlett's  homestead.  The  Bartletts  are  a  high-toned, 
wealthy  family,  with  a  great  deal  of  pride,  and  a  good 
record  to  back  it  up.  They  are  descended  from  Josiah 


ROY   COMES   TO   GRIEF.  203 

Bavtlett,  the  first  governor  of  New  Hampshire.  I  took 
the  clerk  up  to  the  house,  to  identify  the  canvas  it  was 
painted  on.  Mr.  Bartlett  did  not  want  you  swindled,  and 
does  not  propose  to  bear  the  name  of  a  rascal  or  scoun- 
drel. How  that  story  would  look  in  the  papers.  How  it 
would  sound,  that  you  bought  a  fine  oil  painting  and  did 
not  know  it  from  a  chromo.  Living  in  Columbus  Avenue 
too.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  you  would  be  the  laughing-stock  of 
Boston.  It  would  be  remembered  against  your  children. 
Of  course,  you  cannot  approve  your  action  now,  and  you 
cannot  afford  to  let  it  get  out." 

The  man  was  pale,  his  hands  trembled,  his  lips  were 
gripped  together  and  he  could  hardly  articulate.  He 
managed  to  ask,  "What  will  settle  it  and  keep  it  from 
getting  out?" 

"  Will  you  settle  ?  "  asked  the  lawyer. 

"  Yes,  if  I  can.     My  wife  wants  me  to." 

Said  the  lawyer,  "Now  I  don't  think  Mr.  Bartlett 
wants  to  take  your  money  for  nothing.  He  is  not  that 
kind.  You  are  well  situated  in  life,  paying  several  thou- 
sand dollars  tax  and  living  in  your  own  house  in  Colum- 
bus Avenue.  Am  I  right?"  He  bowed,  and  visions  of 
big  money,  going  out  from  him  to  the  lawyer,  floated  be- 
fore his  mind's  eye.  "Now,"  said  the  lawyer,  "I  think  I 
can  manage  this  thing  easily  for  you,  and  honorably  for 
Mr.  Bartlett.  There  need  be  no  suit.  I  should  not  be 
surprised  if  you  were  an  honorable,  upright  man.  Only 
you  made  a  bad  mistake.  But  you  come  honorably  to 
me,  at  once,  and  offer  reparation.  These  pupils  and  wit- 
nesses can  be  told  that  it  all  came  by  a  mistake,  that  you 
have  apologized,  and  got  acquainted  with  Mr.  Bartlett, 
that  you  have  fallen  in  love  with  his  pictures  and  have 


204  THE   WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

given  him  an  order  for  two  nice  ones,  and  no  suit  and  no 
damages  to  pay." 

"Can  you  manage  it?"  asked  the  man. 

"I  will  try  it,  and  I  rather  think  so,"  said  the  lawyer. 
"If  you  say  so  I  will  make  this  proposition.  You  write 
an  apology,  directed  to  Mr.  Bartlett,  saying  it  all  came 
through  a  mistake.  Don't  for  heaven's  sake  explain  the 
mistake,  or  people  will  never  get  done  laughing  at  you. 
Then  say,  please  find  enclosed  two  hundred  dollars,  for 
which  please  paint  me  a  pair  of  landscapes,  of  such  size 
as  you  can  afford  to,  without  frames,  for  the  money.  Pay 
the  money  to  me,  and  I  will  give  you  a  receipt  for  the 
money,  for  him.  Also  pay  me  ten  dollars  for  my  trouble. 
Mr.  Bartlett  will  get  the  two  hundred  solid.  If  he  does 
not  consent,  I  will  at  once  return  the  two  hundred  to 
you,  but  keep  the  ten." 

"  I  will  do  it,"  said  he,  "  and  you  let  me  know  at  once. 
Say,  you  must  let  me  know  at  once,  right  off,  now.  I 
will  wait.  I  can't  go  home  until  it  is  settled.  My  poor 
wife  won't  sleep  a  wink  to-night,  and  of  course  that 
means  me  too." 

That  lawyer  wanted  to  roar.  He  could  hardly  hold  in. 
But  he  did.  They  always  do.  He  said  it  was  too  bad 
for  such  nice  folks  to  make  such  a  mistake.  Then  Edric 
Lyman  wrote  the  apology,  and  the  order  for  the  pictures. 
The  man  signed  it  and  gave  the  lawyer  two  new  one- 
hundred-dollar  bills  and  a  ten. 

"Now,"  said  the  lawyer,  "you  wait  here,  and  I'll  see 
if  I  can  find  a  night's  sleep  for  you  and  your  wife."  He 
stated  the  case.  Roy  laughed.  His  anger  was  gone. 
He  did  not  wish  to  keep  the  happy  couple  awake.  "  How 
much  of  the  two  hundred  comes  to  you,  Mr.  Lyman?" 


ROY   COMES   TO   GRIEF.  205 

"  Not  a  cent.  I  got  ten  dollars  from  our  worthy  friend. 
Do  you  settle  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Roy. 

"Then,"  said  Lawyer  Lyman,  "  I  consider  you  are  just 
two  good  orders  in.  I  have  got  ten  dollars  to  pay  rne  for 
holding  in,  when  I  wanted  to  laugh.  I  also  consider  that 
you  can  afford  to  paint  me  quite  a  picture  as  a  present." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Roy,  "  and  I'll  do  it."     He  did. 

The  lawyer  returned  and  the  man's  trouble  was  over. 
He  was  grateful.  He  was  invited  to  call  again,  socially, 
or  on  business.  The  lawyer  told  him  that  he  wished  that 
all  would  settle  their  legal  wrongs  as  honorably  and 
promptly  as  he  had.  When  the  man  left,  he  felt  a  some- 
thing like  a  warm  spot  in  his  heart,  as  if  he  had  parted 
with  a  dear  friend,  and  that  friend  was  Edric  Lyman  the 
lawyer.  But  it  is  not  every  lawyer  that  can  do  that. 
This  man's  wife  had  made  a  bad  mistake.  She  had  done 
what  a  woman  often  does,  verdict  first,  evidence  later. 
She  had  denounced  a  good  picture  too  quick,  and  sent  a 
good  but  impressible  man  off,  loaded  for  bear.  He  had 
made  a  fool  of  himself,  and  paid  the  bill  like  a  little  man. 
The  lawyer  had  made  his  share.  Oh,  I  guess  it  was  well 
enough,  and  as  near  God's  justice  as  we  shall  ever  get 
among  men,  whose  ways  are  so  unequal.  Roy  asked 
Miss  Graham  if  she  considered  he  had  been  hard  on  the 
man.  She  said  no,  at  once.  Easy  enough,  perhaps  too 
easy. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

GLOKIOUS   BOSTON. 

ROY  walked  out  upon  the  Common  with  Miss  Graham,  to 
the  soldiers'  monument.  They  were  pleased  and  amused 
at  the  way  the  money  had  come  in  since  the  sale.  I  sup- 
pose there  is  no  name  to  call  it  by,  except  a  sale.  When 
they  reached  the  monument,  Roy  turned  toward  his 
home  on  Beacon  Hill.  He  was  inclined  to  laugh  at  the 
way  the  two  law  cases  had  turned  out.  The  three  ladies 
at  home  were  much  amused  at  some  of  Roy's  expe- 
riences which  he  told  them,  leaving  out  the  names. 
These  suppers  were  very  pleasant.  Mrs.  Warren  was 
about  fifty,  and  she  refused  to  grow  old.  So  she  was  as 
full  of  fun  as  a  girl,  and  with  a  great  deal  more  sense  in 
it.  There  is  a  saying  that  a  man  is  as  young  as  he  feels, 
and  a  woman  as  old  as  she  looks,  but  like  all  sweeping  as- 
sertions, it  binds  nothing,  and  leaves  us  all  to  look  as 
young  as  we  can,  and  feel  as  young  as  we  may. 

Said  Roy,  "It  is  astonishing  how  some  peoplu  love 
Boston." 

"How  can  they  help  it?"  asked  Miss  Emily. 

"How  would  it  do  to  let  the  Art  Coterie  glorify 
Boston,  at  our  next  meeting?" 

The  ladies  approved  of  it.  They  were  all  born  in 
Boston. 

Roy  said  "he  was  not, but  he  liked  Boston  very  much. 
206 


GLORIOUS   BOSTON.  207 

He  had  met  so  many  pleasant  things,  and  so  many  true, 
splendid  people,  that  it  seemed  to  him  there  could  be  no 
city  in  the  world  more  justly  loved  than  Boston." 

So  it  was  ordered  that  the  next  Art  Coterie  should  be 
Boston  night.  Miss  Graham  approved.  When  the 
artists  and  pupils  were  told,  the  idea  seemed  to  take  im- 
mensely. Whatever  joy  many  people  find  in  other  cities, 
they  keep  their  love  for  Boston. 

Roy's  studio  door  bore  the  usual  Art  Coterie  notice, 
for  three  days.  During  those  three  days,  his  pupils  were 
thicker  than  Indians.  They  averaged  ten  a  day.  He 
had  to  laugh,  but  it  kept  him  and  Miss  Graham  busy. 
The  Thursday  evening  came.  The  rooms  were  full  and 
everything  was  lovely.  The  iron  namesake  of  the  bird 
that  saved  Rome  was  suspended  high.  Obscure  joke. 
When  the  company  was  seated,  Mrs.  Warren  was  ob- 
served sitting  in  a  good  corner  beside  a  fine-looking  gen- 
tleman about  her  own  age,  and  they  were  having  a  most 
sociable  time.  Her  daughters  looked  triumphant  at  each 
other. 

Roy  called  the  meeting  to  order.  He  said,  "My 
friends,  I  welcome  you  here  again,  in  the  name  of  Lady 
Warren  and  her  daughters.  Our  coterie  has  all  the  lat- 
itude that  it  needs,  and  any  subject  that  the  powers 
select  is  in  order.  To-night  we  have  the  most  inter- 
esting subject  in  the  whole  world,  'Glorious  Boston.' 
It  is  usual  to  divide  a  sermon  into  several  heads.  That 
rule  will  never  apply  to  Boston,  which  is  incapable  of 
being  divided.  It  can  be  added  to,  without  limit.  So 
we  must  consider  it  all  at  once.  I  heard  a  man  who  was 
coming  to  make  a  speech  in  Boston,  say  that  he  tried  all 
the  way  to  lay  out  some  remarks  to  make,  when  he  got 


208  THE  WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

here.  He  was  utterly  unable  to  do  it,  and  come  to  get 
here,  he  found  the  reason.  The  city  itself  never  was 
laid  out.  Now  a  man  that  could  say  that,  ought  to  be 
laid  out  himself.  There  is  a  proverb  in  New  Hampshire, 
that  you  die  a  fool  if  you  do  not  see  Boston.  Who  says 
she  is  not  loyal?  I  do  not  intend  to  speak  of  the  history 
of  the  past.  The  schoolboys  know  that.  I  do  not  need 
to  tell  of  the  present.  We  can  all  see  it.  But  I  should 
like  to  tell  you  of  the  future,  and  of  the  forces  that  will 
in  all  probability  operate  forever  upon  Boston.  So  the 
theme  of  to-night  will  take  the  form  of  Prophecy,  Story, 
Poem,  Song,  and  Congratulation.  I  did  intend  to  speak 
of  it  myself,  but  I  have  had  the  rare  good  fortune  to 
bring  to  you  the  sound  of  more  than  mortal  voice,  and  to 
secure  the  opinion  of  one  who,  many  years  ago,  loved  and 
lived  in  Boston.  For  years  and  years  he  has  been  an 
inhabitant  of  the  land  of  immortals  ;  yet  knowing,  loving, 
and  watching  over  Boston.  He  is  old  and  wise  now,  and 
makes  no  more  mistakes.  He  has  kindly  consented  to 
give  us  a 

"  Sure  Prophecy  of  Boston. 

"I  now  have  the  pleasure  of  presenting  to  you,  an 
older  inhabitant  than  you  ever  saw.  Mr.  Peter  Rugg, 
who  once  lived  at  the  North  end  of  Boston." 

He  did  look  old.  His  face  was  fair;  his  hair  was 
white  like  his  long  beard,  white  as  snow.  He  was  dressed 
in  the  style  of  Georgius  Secundus.  He  looked  about  two 
centuries  old.  He  was  a  noble,  commanding  figure,  or 
man,  or  spirit,  or  whatever  he  was.  He  received  instant 
attention, .and  when  the  room  was  almost  painfully  still, 
he  began  in  a  voice  at  first  tremulous,  Avhich  at  once  be- 
came magnetic,  firm,  rich,  and  strong. 


GLORIOUS   BOSTON.  209 

My  children,  I  come  to  you  from  that  home  which 
seems  so  far,  and  is  yet  so  near.  I  take  the  old  form 
which  I  lived  in,  and  cherished.  But  a  spirit  does  not 
grow  old  and  worn  out.  O,  no,  my  friends,  we  are  up  to 
the  times.  We  know  what  is  done,  and  can  see  much 
more  that  may,  can,  ought,  and  will  be  done.  Else  how 
can  we  keep  you  in  all  your  ways,  lest  you  dash  your  foot 
against  a  stone?  I  always  loved  Boston.  She  is  an 
eternal  city.  No  city  on  earth  has  more  to  make  it  per- 
manent, than  Boston.  Few,  very  few,  have  near  as  much. 
She  is  a  mighty  gateway,  in  the  highway  of  nations 
around  the  world. 

Beginning  at  Eastport,  there  is  no  especial  natural 
site  until  you  reach  Portland.  That  can  easily  be 
burned  by  war  vessels  from  the  sea.  The  same  is  true 
of  Portsmouth.  Boston  is  much  safer  and  better  de- 
fended, naturally.  There  is  no  more  until  you  reach 
New  York.  Boston  is  by  nature  a  strong  city.  No  city 
in  all  the  world  has  so  many  .advantages,  by  nature,  as 
Boston  has  for  her  children.  Unlike  our  Southern  cities 
it  is  not  built  on  alluvial  soil.  Its  foundation  is  hard 
and  solid.  Its  rivers  are  permanent,  and  do  not  change 
their  banks.  The  islands  in  the  harbor  are  rocky  and 
immovable.  Our  harbor  is  a  good  and  safe  one.  The 
entrance  to  it  is  narrow,  and  well  defended.  Boston  is 
situated  in  the  toe-calk  of  a  mighty  horseshoe,  for  eter- 
nal luck.  It  is  about  a  hundred  miles  around  on  the 
South  Shore  to  Cape  Cod.  It  is  a  hundred  miles  around 
on  the  North  shore,  and  more  if  you  count  it.  Oh,  the 
handsomest  rocky  islands,  green  fields,  pretty  bays, 
sandy  beaches,  lighthouses,  cities,  towns,  villages,  hotels, 
summer  houses,  sparkling  waters,  tides  enough  to  keep 


210  THE   WILD  ARTIST  IN   BOSTON. 

them  sweet,  bright  ocean,  staving  billows,  vessels  of  all 
kinds,  oh,  more  beauty  than  any  city  can  show  this  side 
the  New  Jerusalem.  The  site  of  Boston  will  not  wash 
away.  Her  hills  will  always  stand  sentinels  around  her. 
Her  beautiful  West  bay  is  a  water  park  fairer  than 
Venice  ever  knew.  All  the  bright  cities  around  her  rise 
up  and  call  her  blessed.  What  drives  in  summer. 
What  sleighing  in  winter.  None  can  be  better.  No 
stagnant  waters  like  Marseilles  and  Mediterranean  ports. 
No  earthquakes  like  San  Francisco  and  Charleston.  No 
malaria.  No  cholera.  No  yellow  fever.  No  fleas.  No 
chigos.  No  dykes  like  Holland.  No  little  sewer  of  a 
river  like  the  Thames  or  Seine.  No  inland  city  like 
Paris  or  Milan.  No  winter  like  St.  Petersburg.  No 
heats  like  India.  No  tigers.  No  serpents.  No  white 
ants  to  eat  your  house  down.  No  centipedes  or  taran- 
tulas. No  volcanoes  to  shake  your  house  down  or  burn 
it.  No  London  fog.  No  Bergen  rain.  No  Texel  wind. 
No  Denver  dust.  No  Dakota  blizzard.  No  Texas 
grasshoppers.  No  Egyptian  ophthalmia.  No  overflow- 
ing of  the  Nile.  No  washing  away  of  the  Mississippi. 
No,  my  children.  None  of  these. 

When  God  made  the  ocean  he  said :  "  Thus  far  shalt 
thou  come,  and  no  farther.  Hither  shall  thy  proud 
waves  be  stayed."  Internal  water  courses  are  very  in- 
constant, and  depend  upon  the  rainfall.  Boston  is 
largely  beyond  all  evil  influences,  a  perrnament  city,  a 
beautiful  queen  city.  The  ocean  comes  to  its  feet,  bring- 
ing tribute  from  all  the  world.  It  has  a  healthy  fertile 
state,  country,  and  great  nation  of  near  seventy  millions, 
the  smartest,  freest,  most  progressive  nation  on  earth, 
behind  it,  and  Europe,  Asia,  and  Africa  before  it.  Oh,  it 


GLORIOUS   BOSTON.  211 

is  a  mighty  gateway,  for  all  the  world  to  pass  through. 
And  they  will  pass  through  it.  Mankind  are  increasing 
in  the  world.  The  sails,  the  rides,  the  drives  around 
Boston,  are  a  continual  surprise,  from  the  Fells  to  Frank- 
lin Park.  Even  the  ocean  is  a  beauty,  and  from  afar  can 
be  seen  the  beautiful  city  that  we  love,  with  the  sunlight 
reflected  from  her  golden  crown.  Now  here,  my  chil- 
dren, is  the  prophecy.  Other  cities  shall  decline  and 
die  like  the  cities  of  old.  Boston  shall  live  and  grow 
grandly,  gloriously.  She  shall  have  few  misfortunes,  few 
calamities.  She  shall  be  wise  and  prudent.  She  shall  be 
loving  and  giving  as  now.  She  shall  be  Christian,  hoping 
and  trusting,  an  honor  to  God,  and  a  blessing  to  all  man- 
kind. She  shall  grow  beautifully,  continually.  And, 
my  children,  this  shall  continue,  until  the  angel  shall 
stand,  with  one  foot  upon  the  sea,  and  the  other  upon 
the  land,  and  shall  swear  by  him  who  liveth  forever,  that 
time  shall  be  no  more.  So  shall  it  be  done  to  glorious 
old  Boston.  My  children,  farewell. 

He  disappeared  behind  a  curtain.  He  spoke  solemnly 
and  impressively,  as  if  he  believed  all  he  had  said,  grow- 
ing more  so,  unto  the  end.  It  was  listened  to  with 
almost  breathless  attention.  Whoever  he  was,  he  had 
held  them  spell-bound  to  the  close.  They  seemed  to 
regret,  when  he  had  finished  his  words,  so  earnest  and 
loyal,  and  they  seemed  most  of  all  to  sorrow,  that  they 
should  see  his  face  no  more.  This  is  Peter  Rugg's  last 
visit  to  Boston.  Then  Roy  called  for  short  stories  about 
Boston. 

A  gentleman  said  :  Not  long  since,  two  of  us  from 
Boston  were  in  Philadelphia.  We  wished  to  see  Benja- 
min West's  large  picture  of  "  Christ  healing  the  sick." 


212  THE   WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

It  was  in  the  insane  asylum,  at  West  Philadelphia.  We 
went  there.  The  matron  admitted  us  and  showed  us 
the  establishment  as  well  as  the  picture,  most  politely. 
We  expressed  our  thanks  for  her  kindness.  She  asked, 
"  Are  you  English  people  ?  "  I  answered  by  asking  if  we 
were  different  from  Philadelphians.  "  Yes,  sir,  you  are." 
"In  what?"  "In  your  language  and  pronunciation." 
"Is  it  as  good  as  Philadelphians'?"  "Yes,  sir,  better, 
much  better.  In  fact  I  think  it  is  the  best  I  ever  heard." 
"  Thank  you,  lady.  We  are  from  Boston."  "  Ah,  that 
accounts  for  it,"  said  she,  and  she  added,  "  I  was  raised 
in  Philadelphia." 

Another  arose  He  said,  there  is  a  lady  artist  here, 
who  makes  fine  crayon  portraits,  and  fine  as  they  are, 
they  are  no  finer  than  her  loyalty  to  Boston.  Here  is  a 
favorite  story  of  hers.  There  is  a  man,  who  married  a 
Boston  Avoman.  She  died.  He  was  inconsolable,  as  well 
he  might  be.  He  sought  a  medium  and  called  her  up. 
He  asked  her  how  she  was  and  if  she  was  glad  to  be 
there.  She  answei-ed  that  she  was  getting  along  mid- 
dling well.  Said  he,  are  you  not  in  heaven  ?  Oh,  yes,  I 
am  in  heaven.  Well,  are  you  not  perfectly  happy  ?  Oh, 
I  get  along  very  well,  but  it  is  not  Boston,  was  the 
answer.  Miss  White's  story  brought  down  the  house. 

A  young  artist  arose,  and  said  he  liked  Boston  as  well 
as  any  one,  but  he  lately  heard  of  a  sad  thing  that  had 
happened.  He  asked  if  he  might  tell  it. 

Roy  said  it  was  a  pity  to  cast  a  gloom  over  so  happy  an 
audience,  but  as  he  had  excited  their  curiosity  perhaps  he 
had  better  tell  it. 

Said  he,  It  is  a  case  where  a  gentleman  artist  caused  a 
young  lady  artist  to  suffer  capital  punishment.  He  had 


GLORIOUS   BOSTON.  213 

been  acquainted  with  her  a  long  time.  He  had  waited 
upon  her,  and  showed  her  very  pleasant  attention.  She  was 
gratified.  He  invited  her  to  his  studio,  a  fine  upper  room 
in  his  dwelling.  I  have  been  in  it,  and  it  is  a  beauty.  Un- 
suspiciously he  conducted  her  upstairs.  She  admired  the 
room,  the  light,  the  pictures,  and  the  artist.  Of  course 
she  did  not  tell  him  this  last.  It  was  time  to  go.  She 
leaned  against  the  dressing-case,  apparently  to  arrange 
her  bonnet,  but  in  reality  she  secreted  a  fine,  valuable  oil 
painting,  of  a  flock  of  geese,  painted  on  a  mahogany 
panel.  She  hid  it  under  her  cloak.  I  am  sorry  to  say  it 
of  a  Boston  woman,  but  she  did.  She  did  it  illegally, 
feloniously,  surreptitiously,  and  with  more  or  less  malice 
aforethought.  They  descended  the  stairs,  talking  pleas- 
antly, until  they  came  to  the  large  vestibule.  They  were 
alone.  Suddenly  she  took  the  picture  from  under  her 
cloak,  and,  handing  it  to  him,  she  said  :  There,  do,  dear, 
take  it.  It  is  so  goort  I  could  not  help  wanting  it.  He 
was  aroused  in  a  moment.  Said  he,  in  a  stern  voice,  Oh 
this  is  dreadful !  You  shall  suffer  capital  punishment  for 
this.  He  caught  her  and  held  her  fast.  There  was  a 
little  scream,  a  slight  concussion,  and  all  was  over.  They 
are  going  to  be  married  next  week.  He  sat  down. 

That  young  chap  had  done  it.  As  Mr.  Toots  says :  "  It 
is  not  so  much  what  he  says,  as  the  way  he  says  it,  that 
gives  me  an  agreeable  feeling  of  warmth,  all  up  my  back." 
Other  stories  were  told. 

Roy  spoke,  My  friends,  I  wish  there  was  a  Boston 
Opera.  J  do  not  mean  an  opera  in  Boston,  for  that  we 
have  often,  I  mean  an  opera  which  shall  contain  Boston 
scenes,  ideas,  songs,  stories,  sayings,  jokes,  and  fun.  It 
would  be  all  the  better  with  Boston  celebrities.  Put  in 


214  THE   WILD  AETIST   IN   BOSTON. 

"  March  to  Boston  "  sure,  and  Yankee  tunes.  Have  a 
procession,  military,  brass  band,  and  the  airiest  drum- 
major  in  the  city.  Drum  and  fife.  Have  models,  paste- 
board if  you  want  to,  borne  aloft,  of  State  House,  Bunker 
Hill  Monument,  Soldiers'  Monument,  Old  South,  New 
South,  Trinity,  Faneuil  Hall,  City  Hall,  Equitable  Build- 
ing, giant  pot  of  beans,  brown  bread,  big  crackers,  State 
House  codfish,  —  that  the  aristocracy  be  not  neglected, — 
Member  from  Cranberry  Centre,  and  Hannah  Partridge. 
Alarms  of  fire.  Fourth  of  July.  O  hold  me  while  I 
faint  away.  If  made  good,  it  would  run  a  thousand  and 
one  nights.  The  audience  approved. 

Another  gentleman  arose,  and  said  he  would  tell  them 
a  vigorous  story  of 

"  The  Boston  Centaur? 

He  was  a  Boston  man,  well  situated,  from  one  of  the 
oldest  families.  He  traced  his  ancestry  away  back  into 
the  dark  ages.  He  was  a  graduate  of  Harvard,  six  feet 
high,  a  fine  athlete,  a  man  of  fine  taste  in  literature  and 
art,  and  a  man  of  bravery  and  honor.  He  liked  to  ride 
horseback.  He  knew  he  was  handsome,  and  as  he  rode 
he  was  a  picture  to  gaze  upon.  His  mount  was  usually 
a  bay  stallion.  Why  should  he  not  show  his  shape,  and 
get  the  life  that  comes  from  horseback  riding?  Theodore 
Parker  said  the  outside  of  a  horse  is  good  for  the  inside 
of  a  man.  So  one  day  this  centaur  was  riding  up  Wash- 
ington Street,  near  the  Transcript  office.  He  passed  a 
truck  team  whose  driver  had  a  long  whip.  It  was  an 
unlucky  piece  of  devilment,  that  prompted  the  teamster 
to  hit  the  stallion  a  cut  with  his  whip.  He  sprang 
forward,  almost  throwing  his  rider,  who  saw  the  blow  and 


GLORIOUS   BOSTON.  215 

Inter  found  the  welt  on  the  horse.  He  reined  him  in,  by 
mig'it  and  strength,  and,  turning  around,  he  rode  back 
and  demanded  of  that  teamster,  in  the  best  of  English, 
"What  did  you  strike  my  horse  for?"  "  I  didn't  strike 
yer  hoss."  "  You  did  strike  my  horse."  "  You  lie !  " 
and  he  added  a  huge  double  oath,  that  reflected  upon  the 
horseman's  mother.  The  centaur  rode  on  a  little,  turned 
into  Avon  Street,  dismounted,  asked  a  gentleman  near, 
"  Sir,  will  you  hold  my  horse  a  few  minutes,  as  a  favor  of 
the  most  valuable  kind?  It  is  a  case  of  life  and  death." 
"I  will,  sir,"  was  the  answer.  The  centaur  went  out, 
and  saw  the  teamster  coming.  He  jumped  upon  the  rear 
of  that  team,  ran  lightly  up  over  the  load,  and,  drawing 
a  light,  tough  cowhide,  he  cowhided  that  teamster  until 
he  roared  for  mercy. 

You  ought  to  have  seen  the  Art  Coterie  then.  The 
house  shook.  Everybody  was  frantic  with  applause. 
The  man  had  brought  them  all  solid,  and  most  impres- 
sively up  to  the  climax,  and  carried  the  Coterie  by  storm. 

Then  he  said,  "  This  horseman  Avas  the  manliest  of 
men.  Now  I  have  almost  told  you  his  middle  name." 

The  evening  was  getting  along.  Roy  arose,  and  read 
the  poem  of 

THE  DISCONTENTED  BOSTONIAN. 

"  THERE  was  a  man  in  Boston,  a  native  Boston  boy, 
Rich,  airy,  handsome,  bright,  well  read,  with  plenty  to  enjoy, 
And  he  grew  discontented,  chose  to  travel  off  apace 
To  see  if  he  could  find  somewhere  a  nicer,  sweeter  place ; 
Says  he :  If  I  don't  like  it,  I'm  not  obliged  to  stay. 
He  bought  a  strong  and  splendid  trunk,  and  journeyed  on  his 
wav. 


216  THE   WILD   AKTIST  IN   BOSTON. 

"  He  went  straight  to  Chicago,  and  vastly  pleased  was  he, 
At  supper  time  the  waiter  brought  a  cockroach  in  his  tea ; 
The  drummers  huddled  'round  him,  to  sell  him  each  did  try, 
They  did  not  understand  a  man  that  did  not  want  to  buy. 
Says  he :  This  place  is  much  too  smart,  I  do  not  care  to  stay, 
And  so  he  packed  his  trunk  for  luck  and  journeyed  on  his  way. 

"  He  journeyed  to  Dakota,  where  the  emigration  goes. 

A  blizzard  caught  him  on  the  fly,  and  froze  his  ears  and  nose ; 

The  snow  came  down  Spitzbergen  drifts  on  all  the  prairies 

wide, 

But  he  had  splendid  Boston  grit,  or  else  he  would  have  died. 
Then  when  the  road  was  opened  an  hour  he  did  not  stay ; 
As  he  had  not  unpacked  his  trunk,  he  journeyed  on  his  way. 

"  Ah,  Denver  is  the  place  you  want,  the  speculators  cry. 

The  ridgepole  of  the  continent.     O  how  is  this  for  high ; 

The  wind  came  up  and  blew  great  guns,  O  how  the  dust  did  fly. 

Says  he  :  I'm  in  a  hurry,  friends,  and  not  prepared  to  buy ; 

Just  wait  a  bit  till  I  come  back,  for  now  I  cannot  stay. 

He  quickly  checked  his  trunk  again,  and  journeyed  on  his  way. 

"  He  went  to  Sacramento.     Ah,  this  handsome  place  will  do, 
He  took  a  drink  of  water  and   it  waxed  him  through   and 

through, 

Says  he :  For  active  physic  this  water  here  is  prime  ; 
Physic  is  good,  but  'tis  not  well  to  take  it  all  the  time. 
I  like  your  pretty  city,  but  I  guess  I  will  not  stay. 
Counting  the  scratches  on  his  trunk,  he  journeyed  on  his  way. 

"  He  went  to  San  Francisco,  where  the  sun  shines  not  in  vain, 
And  nature  shows  her  force  as  strong  when  she  sends  down 

the  rain. 

He  tried  to  think  he  liked  it,  but  its  power  made  him  frown  ; 
The  fog  came  on  and  choked  him  up,  an  earthquake  shook  him 

down. 

Says  he :  My  friends,  I've  got  to  go,  I  have  not  time  to  stay. 
When  baggage  smashers  smote  his  trunk,  he  journeyed  on  his 

way. 


GLORIOUS   BOSTON.  217 

"  Down  to  Los  Angeles  he  went,  a  country  hard  to  beat, 
Where  fleas  adore  a  Boston  man,  so  nice  and  fresh  and  sweet ; 
They  picnicked  on  him  all  the  time,  at  every  step  he  made, 
Abed  and  up,  in  coat  and  boots,  and  breeches  I'm  afraid. 
So  to  secure  what  might  be  left,  he  could  no  longer  stay, 
And  so  he  scratched,  and  packed  his  trunk,  and  journeyed  on 
his  way. 

"  He  laid  off  at  San  Diego.   What  heat  was  all  around, 

His  blood  did  almost  sizzle,  he  almost  melted  down. 

Says  he :  Some  folks  may  like  this,  tastes  differ  so,  you  see, 

I  know  a  city  farther  east  that's  good  enough  for  me. 

He  bought  another  ticket,  glad  any  price  to  pay, 

To  take  him  and  his  well  worn  trunk,  to  journey  on  his  way. 

"  He  stopped  again  in  Texas,  to  see  what  fate  would  bring, 
'Twos  drought,  or  floods,  or  grasshoppers,  or  some  infernal 

thing, 

Texas  vicissitudes  are  large,  in  such  a  monster  state, 
A  quart  of  something  that  you  like,  a  bushel  that  3rou  hate. 
As  he  was  not  obliged  to  come,  he  was  not  bound  to  stay, 
That  blessed  trunk  he  took  once  more,  and  journeyed  on  his 

way. 

"  He  went  to  New  Orleans,  among  the  Pelicans  to  stay, 
Drank  Mississippi  water  and  the  mischief  was  to  pay. 
They  said :  You  soon  get  used  to  it,  'tis  quite  a  job  to  try; 
When  you  are  well  acclimated,  you're  safe  without  you  die. 
Fever  and  ague  shook  him  loose,  he  could  no  longer  stay ; 
Weary,  he  took  his  battered  trunk  and  journeyed  on  his  way. 

"  Over  to  Florida  he  went.     Pine  trees  and  sandy  ground, 
Where  alligators,  oranges,  and  rattle-snakes  abound ; 
Mosquitoes  are  gallinippers  there,  their  quality  is  prime, 
They  bit  him  quick,  they  bit  him  hard,  they  bit  him  all  the 

time. 

And  when  an  ague  chill  set  in,  the  mischief  was  to  pay, 
And  begging  them  to  spare  that  trunk,  he  journeyed  on  his 

way. 


218  THE   WILD    AKTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

"  Northward  he  took  his  weary  way,  in  seai-ch  of  rest  and  ease, 
Where  Charleston's  shadows  hide  away  beneath  palmetto  trees ; 
He  saw  Fort  Sumter's  battered  wall  and  sadly  shook  his  head, 
But  not  to  mourn  secession's  doom  or  sigh  for  slavery  dead ; 
When  a  great  earthquake  shook  him  loose.     For  more  than 

double  pay 
He  saved  that  trunk  on  board  the  cars,  and  journeyed  on  his 

way. 

"  He  stayed  again  at  Washington,  our  capital  to  see ; 

He  found  the  distances  so  grand,  a  weary  man  was  he. 

Folks  asked :  What  office  do  you  want  ?    What  office  want  ?  he 

cried, 
I  want  no  office.     Then  they  laughed.     For  sure  they  thought 

he  lied. 

Says  he  :  'Tis  very  lonesome  here,  I  will  no  longer  stay ; 
He  took  his  poor,  hard-looking  trunk,  and  journeyed  on  his 

way. 

' '  He  went  to  Philadelphia,  great  city  of  our  land, 
They  did  not  speak  our  language  quite,  though  he  could  under- 
stand. 

He  tried  to  smile  and  like  it,  but  ended  with  a  sigh : 
Great  city  of  the  checkerboard,  I  fear  I'm  going  to  die ; 
I'm  stuck  full  of  right  angles,  although  I  trTed  to  stay. 
He  cobbled  up  his  poor  smashed  trunk,  and  journeyed  on  his 
way. 

"  He  went  to  New  York  city.     Ah,  this  is  grand,  says  he, 
This  Brooklyn  bridge,  this  Central  Park,  Statue  of  Liberty. 
He  saw  it  all  in  such  a  whirl  he  had  not  time  to  think ; 
He  kept  it  up  by  day  and  night,  he  could  not  sleep  a  wink. 
Says  he :  Yes,  this  is  awful,  I'd  almost  like  to  stay. 
He  tied  a  clothes  line  round  his  trunk  and  journeyed  on  his 
way. 

"  When  Boston's  golden  dome  arose,  his  heart  was  tried  and 

true, 
Says  he :  My  luck  is  found  at  last,  O  glory  Hallelu. 


GLORIOUS  BOSTON.  219 

I've  wandered  far  away  from  home,  returning,  fancy  free. 
Hail,  Boston,  queen  of  heart  and  home,  just  good  enough  for 

me, 
Hail,  luck  and  love ;  Hail,  food  and  drink ;  Hail,  joy  with  which 

to  stay. 
No  more  fool's  paradise  for  me,  or  journey  on  my  way. 

"  And  now  he  lives  in  Boston,  so  happy  all  the  while ; 

He  walks  upon  the  common  with  a  beatific  smile ; 

He  looks  in  the  batrachian  lake,  and  in  it  sees  his  face, 

No  more  a  tired  wanderer,  bereft  of  joy  and  grace. 

With  no  more  worlds  to  conquer,  no  higher  joy  to  know. 

If  he  could  start  for  heaven  to-day,  I  doubt  if  he  would  go." 

There  appeared  to  be  no  one  asleep  during  the  reading 
of  this. 

Another  story  was  told.  Said  he,  There  is  always 
something  new  to  be  seen  in  Boston  :  the  exhibitions,  the 
meetings,  the  art  stores,  the  galleries,  the  studios,  O  some- 
thing all  the  time.  I  remember  once,  when  calling  upon 
some  of  my  artist  friends,  I  was  in  the  studio  building. 

I  was  talking  in  a  corridor,  when  a  friend  came  by  and 
said,  "  Call  on  me  next,  and  I  will  show  you  a  wonderful 
sight,  a  sight  that  you  will  never  see  again."  Very  soon 
I  went.  Near  his  studio  door  he  had  a  fine  telescope 
set,  and  he  invited  me  to  see  the  transit  of  Venus.  It 
was  a  thrilling  sight.  To  see  that  little  base-ball  looking 
planet,  passing  clear  as  noonday  across  the  face  of  the 
sun,  and  showing  the  awful  distances  of  the  sky,  better 
than  I  ever  saw  it  before,  was  a  thing  to  happen  only 
once  in  a  lifetime,  and  for  which  I  shall  always  be  grate- 
ful to  the  man  who  is  at  once  engraver,  artist,  portrait- 
painter,  and  generous  good  fellow  —  Mr.  D.  T.  Kendrick. 

Said  Roy,  "  Now  it  is  near  time  to  close.  Let  us  sing 
the  Boston  Song." 


220  THE  WILD   ARTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

It  was  distributed  on  slips.  Miss  Sarah  Warren  took 
the  piano,  and  a  dozen  vocalists,  who  were  not  strangers 
to  the  public,  gathered  around  her.  I  give  the  words  of 
the  solo  and  chorus. 

THE  BOSTON  SONG. 

"  There  is  a  handsome  city,  reflected  in  the  sea, 
Upon  a  noble  river,  that  pours  its  waters  free ; 
Her  regal  beauties  rising  around  her  golden  dome, 
And  Boston  proudly  sits  a  queen  with  royal  welcome  home. 
CHORUS  —  O  roll  away,  roll  away,  Atlantic  waves  are  rolling 

Up  to  the  city  of  the  golden  dome, 
O  roll  away,  roll  away,  ages  onward  rolling, 
Proud  old  Boston  gives  us  welcome  home. 

"  The  sun  lights  up  her  harbor,  sweet  islands  down  the  bay ; 
No  fairer  scene  he  shines  upon  in  all  his  longest  day, 
And  east  and  west,  o'er  hill  and  wave,  new  beauty  doth 

enfold, 
To  glorify  his  setting  in  a  sea  of  molten  gold. —  CHORUS. 

"  And  history  stands  ready  her  brightest  page  to  fill, 
The  story  of  the  Pilgrims,  the  fight  of  Bunker  Hill, 
And  deeds  of  daring  sailors,  and  patriots  tried  and  true, 
And  soldiers,  O  we  bless  them  all,  our  boys  that  wore  the 
blue.  —  CHORUS. 

"With  learning,  wit,  and  culture,  with  science  and  with  art, 
With  all  good  works  of  mercy  old  Boston  does  her  part. 
When  sorrow  or  misfortune  falls,  in  near  or  distant  lands, 
Her  blessing  flies  with  winged  feet  and  open  heart  and 
hands. —  CHORUS. 

'•'  Then  hail,  eternal  city,  sure  founded  on  a  rock, 
Thy  granite  harbors,  forts,  and  walls,  thy  granite  Pilgrim 

stock, 

Thou  queen  of  peace  and  plenty,  what  harm  can  thee  befall  ? 
Refreshment  of  the  nations,  as  they  travel  round  the  ball. 

—  CHORUS. 


GLOKIOTTS   BOSTON.  221 

"  Now  join  we  to  salute  her,  and  let  the  cannon  roar, 
We  cheer,  praise  her,  love  her  as  our  fathers  did  before. 
For  justice,  right,  and  honor  we  keep  our  flag  unfurled, 
A  beauty   and  a  beacon  to   the  nations   round  the  world. 
— CHORUS." 

They  made  the  most  of  the  rattling  song  and  chorus, 
and  the  crowd  outside  shared  in  the  effect. 

Roy  again  called  attention.  He  said,  "  Now,  in  conclu- 
sion, we  will  listen  to  our  hostess,  by  whose  kindness  our 
coterie  is  possible." 

Mrs.  Warren  arose.  She  was  richly  dressed,  and  Roy 
did  not  know  before  that  she  was  so  handsome.  When 
the  noble  lords  and  ladies  of  England  await  the  cominsr 

o  O 

of  their  queen,  an  equerry  makes  the  announcement. 
The  queen  is  coming ;  ladies  bare  their  shoulders  in  the 
presence  of  royalty.  Mrs.  Warren  had  worn  a  mantle, 
very  handsome,  but  now,  as  she  arose,  it  fell  upon  her 
chair  and  showed  full  dress,  suitable  for  the  queen's 
drawing-room ;  a  bouquet  of  appropriate  flowers  at  her 
side,  her  hair  crinkled  a  little,  and  yet  showing  her  fine 
forehead,  and  a  cluster  of  white  light  diamonds  upon  her 
bosom,  that  saw  the  light  only  on  the  most  festive  occa- 
sions. That  dear  old  witch  had  fairly  taken  them  all. 
The  daughters  looked  at  each  other  in  triumph. 

When  the  welcome  was  lulled,  she  said,  "  We  are 
pleased  to  see  you  all  so  happy.  The  Art  Coterie  pays  us 
well,  as  an  investment.  But  I  have  a  story  to  tell  you. 
When  I  was  a  little  girl,  going  to  school  here  in  Boston, 
there  was  a  little  boy  in  the  same  classes  with  me.  He 
was  about  my  size,  and  we  went  through  the  schools  to- 
gether. Sometimes  one  was  higher  in  the  class,  some- 
times the  other.  We  have  always  known  and  respected 


222  THE  WILD  ARTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

each  other,  and  have  always  called  each  other  by  our 
given  name.  So  we  have  never  grown  old,  and  we  are 
still  boy  and  girl  together.  He  took  a  Franklin  medal, 
and  wears  it  to-night.  He  has  had  many  honors,  and 
deserved  them  all.  He  has  done  much  for  Boston,  and 
will  do  all  he  can.  And  you  do  not  know  with  what 
pleasure  I  introduce  my  schoolmate  to  you  to-night,  as  the 
mayor  of  Boston." 

Mrs.  Warren  had  designed  to  make  a  sensation,  and 
she  had  just  done  it.  She  was  a  long-headed  woman.  It 
was  an  ovation  and  a  reception.  The  mayor  did  not 
make  much  of  a  speech.  He  was  so  broken  up,  he  said, 
he  could  not.  He  had  enjoyed  one  of  the  happiest  even- 
ings of  his  life.  Yet  somehow  it  had  pulled  upon  his 
heart.  He  had  tried  to  do  all  the  good  he  could  to 
Boston  and  everybody,  and  if  there  was  any  good  in  him, 
it  was  because  he  had  known  such  loyal  and  true  hearts, 
such  white  souls  as  Mrs.  Parna  Warren  and  her  daughters. 
White  handkerchiefs  were  moistened,  and  the  Boston 
night  was  in  memory,  a  thing  of  beauty,  and  a  joy  for- 
ever. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

A    FRIEND    IN    NEED. 

ROY  attended  to  his  pupils,  and  painted  pictures 
besides.  He  made  them  just  as  good  as  he  could.  He 
was  doing  better  than  he  expected.  About  once  a  mouth 
he  went  home  to  his  parents,  and  a  fine  change  it  was  to 
him,  the  two  or  three  days  he  had  with  them.  The 
home  bond  was  strong.  Miss  Graham  was  in  the  studio 
four  of  five  days  in  each  week,  sometimes  only  forenoons, 
and  then,  again,  she  was  there  until  four  or  later.  Roy 
took  a  walk  every  morning  when  the  weather  was  fine, 
on  the  way  to  the  studio.  One  morning  he  was  walking 
briskly  past  the  head  of  Hanover  Street.  Something 
jumped  against  him,  and  upon  him,  and,  although  a  young 
Irishman  pulled  upon  the  chain,  and  shouted,  O  come 
off!  still  he  did  not  give  up  jumping  upon  or  towards 
Roy.  He  looked  again.  It  was  Canis  Major !  There 
he  was,  muzzled,  and  being  dragged  off  by  a  young 
Irishman.  In  an  instant  he  sprang,  caught  the  chain,  and 
held  on. 

"  Leggo  my  dog !     Leggo  my  dog  !  " 

"You  lie.  It  is  not  your  dog.  It  is  my  dog,"  said 
Roy. 

The  man  gave  Roy  a  kick  on  the  shin,  and  Roy  re- 
turned the  compliment  by  a  big  blow  on  the  nose,  that 
blooded  his  face.  For  a  wonder,  a  policeman  came  along 

223 


224  THE   WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

just  in  time  to  see  the  kick  and  the  blow.  He  took  the 
man  by  the  collar.  Right  is  usually  with  the  best  dressed 
man.  Poverty  and  crime  roost  together.  The  policeman 
had  not  formulated  that,  but  he  usually  acted  on  it. 
Both  held  to  the  chain  and  the  dog. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  policeman  of  the  Irishman. 

"  This  divil  warnts  to  stale  me  dog." 

"  How  long  have  you  had  the  dog?" 

"'Bout  foore  months." 

"  Where  did  you  get  him  ?  " 

"  Bort  him." 

"What  did  you  pay?" 

"  Twenty-foive  dollars." 

•He  turned  to  Roy.     "Is  the  dog  yours  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Can  you  prove  it  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"How  long  have  you  had  him  ?" 

"  Five  years.     Since  he  was  a  pup." 

"Who  bought  him?" 

"My  father.  But  the  bill  was  made  out  to  me ;  so  he 
is  my  dog." 

Then,  turning  to  the  man,  he  asked,  "  What  is  your 
name  ?  " 

"  Maginnis." 

The  policeman  laughed.  He  took  Roy's  card,  and  told 
him  to  take  the  dog,  and  have  him  at  the  police  court  at 
nine  o'clock  the  next  day.  "  Maginnis,  you  be  there,  and 
prove  that  the  dog  is  yours,  and  you  can  take  him." 

Just  then  a  friend  came  along,  and  went  with  Roy  to 
the  studio.  If  ever  there  was  a  loving,  thankful  heart,  it 
was  Canis  Major.  Roy  sent  out  for  Lawyer  Lyman.  He 


A  FBIEND  IN  NEED,  225 

came.  He  knew  the  dog.  He  asked,  "  What  evidence 
have  you  that  the  dog  is  yours?  Any  photographs?" 

"  O  yes,  several  good  ones,  and  stereoscopic  pictures  of 
the  home.  Can  is  Major  comes  into  them  all.  They  all 
have  the  date,  and  the  photographer's  name  at  Dover. 
Also  I  have  painted  him  in  oil,  with  the  date  each  time." 

"  I  guess  you  will  do." 

Said  Roy,  "  I  wish  you  would  call  at  the  Quincy  House 
and  telegraph  to  my  father,  that  I  have  Canis  Major,  and 
for  him  to  come  to  my  studio  in  the  first  train  to-morrow 
morning.  He  will  come." 

"  What  value  do  you  put  on  the  dog?  " 

"  Oh,  no  money  value.  He  is  not  for  sale  at  any  price. 
I  would  as  soon  think  of  selling  my  guardian  angel." 

The  dog  was  next  cared  for.  Roy  petted  him  and 
loved  him  to  his  heart's  content.  Canis  Major  paid  his 
respects  to  a  pound  of  beefsteak  and  a  drink.  Miss  Gra- 
ham was  presented  to  him,  and  he  took  to  her  at  once. 
Roy  sent  word  to  Mrs.  Warren  about  it,  and  said  he 
should  not  be  at  home  at  night,  but  would  sleep  on  the 
sofa  in  the  studio,  to  be  company  for  Canis  Major.  And 
would  they  send  down  his  supper,  and  a  few  bits  for  his 
poor  friend?  I  leave  you  to  judge  whether  they  did  or 
not.  No,  I'll  tell  you.  After  supper,  which  was  like  the 
play  of  Hamlet  with  Hamlet  left  out,  Mrs.  Warren  and 
her  daughters  came  down  to  see  Canis  Major,  and  fell  in 
love  with  him.  It  was  a  picnic  for  him  every  way.  He 
had  not  been  long  from  home,  and  was  not  much  changed. 
He  was  a  large  brown  and  white_Newfoundland.  He  was 
well  petted.  Roy  could  not  be  prevailed  upon  to  take 
him  out.  The  next  day  Mr.  Bartlett  surprised  Canis 
Major,  and  had  his  welcome.  They  all  went  to  the  police 


226  THE   WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

court,  but  the  enemy  did  not  put  in  an  appearance.  It 
was  too  dangerous.  Mr.  Bartlett  took  the  dog  home  by 
the  noon  train  for  Dover.  Roy  saw  them  safely  into  the 
baggage  car,  and  Mr.  Bartlett,  with  the  chain  on  the  dog, 
seated  comfortably  with  Canis  Major's  head  in  his  lap. 
lie  did  not  see  the  malicious,  ugly  eyes  that  watched  him 
from  behind  a  bunch  of  feather  dusters,  the  father  of  the 
Irish  American  that  had  given  his  name  as  Maginnis. 
But  they  were  there,  and  watched  the  whole  proceedings. 

Roy  went  into  Lawyer  Lyman's  office.  "  0  give  me 
two  dollars,  unless  you  think  it  is  too  much." 

"  Not  a  bit." 

Said  the  lawyer,  "I  did  not  quite  think  they  would 
appear,  but  sometimes  such  people  will,  and  swear  you 
right  out  of  court."  , 

"How  is  that?" 

"  O  courts  go  *by  the  mass  and  quality  of  evidence. 
If  a  rascal  can  bring  evidence  enough  he  can  win  his 
case  in  spite  of  all  the  righteousness  in  the  world.  Law 
is  one  thing,  justice  is  sometimes  another.  Not  long  since 
I  had  the  facts  in  a  horse  case.  There  was  a  horse-dealer 
who  got  his  living  by  buying  horses,  fixing  them  up  a 
little,  and  selling  them  at  a  profit.  Inasmuch  as  a  horse 
adds  the  price  of  his  board  every  day  to  his  cost,  he  soon 
eats  his  own  head  off,  without  you  use  him.  This  man 
was  sharp,  and  with  no  more  conscience  than  a  man- 
eating  tiger.  A  young  man  rode  a  horse  into  his  yard. 
He  had  a  light  bridle,  but  no  saddle.  It  was  a  young, 
pretty,  medium-sized  horse.  The  man  said  he  had  been 
selling  sewing-machines.  He  had  sold  out.  He  had  sold 
his  wagon  and  harness.  The  firm  had  appointed  him  to 
take  charge  of  the  wareroom  in  Boston,  and  he  wanted 


A   FRIEND   IN   NEED.  227 

an  offer  for  the  horse.  The  horse-dealer  had  his  own 
ideas  of  buying  a  hoive  on  a  stranger's  word,  and  said  so. 
He  did  not  want  to  buy  the  horse  any  way,  and  it  was  not 
safe  for  him  to  be  out  selling  a  horse  that  way.  If  he 
wanted  twenty  dollars  for  him  he  could  leave  him. 

"  Horse-dealer  took  a  bill  of  the  horse  dated  a  year 
ago,  the  sum  stated  in  it  being  a  hundred  dollars.  Man 
signed  it,  took  his  money  and  vanished.  The  horse  was 
kept  in  a  tight  stall,  out  of  sight  of  visitors.  He  was 
driven  out  at  night  and  proved  from  his  speed  to  be 
worth  from  two  to  three  hundred  dollars.  Not  long 
after,  a  man  was  talking  horse  with  him,  and  looking 
over  his  eight  or  nine  horses.  Said  he  lived  a  few  miles 
away,  in  the  next  town,  and  wanted  to  buy.  After  a  lit- 
tle criticism  on  the  horses  he  saw,  horse-dealer  showed 
the  horse  in  the  close  stall.  The  man  recognized  him  at 
once,  as  his  own  horse,  which  had  been  stolen  from  his 
pasture,  the  night  before  the  horse-dealer  bought  him. 
The  owner  of  the  horse  made  no  sign  of  what  he  had  dis- 
covered, but  went  to  a  country  lawyer,  an  oldish  man, 
and  rather  slow.  He  brought  suit  for  the  horse.  The 
owner,  the  plaintiff,  was  in  court  himself,  his  wife,  and 
his  two  sons.  Four  people  all  swore  point-blank,  that 
they  had  raised  the  horse,  and  the  old  mare,  the  horse's 
mother,  was  outside,  hitched  to  the  fence.  They  might 
go  and  see  her.  Nobody  went. 

"Then  the  defendent  came.  He  had  a  dozen  witnesses. 
They  all  swore  that  horse-dealer  had  owned  that  horse 
over  a  year.  Horse-dealer  showed  his  bill  of  the  horse. 
He  did  not  doubt  that  the  horse  was  like  the  farmer's. 
It  was  a  common  kind  of  horse;  but  there  was  his  bill, 
and  he  had  bought  the  horse  low,  only  a  hundred  dollars, 


228  THE   WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

over  a  year  ago.  He  had  doctored  him  up  some,  and 
now  he  was  all  1'ight,  and  worth  double.  He  could  not 
afford  to  pay  for  plaintiff's  mistakes.  So  horse-dealer 
euchred  the  man  out  of  his  own  horse,  and  stuck  him 
with  a  large  bill  of  costs.  This  story  is  a  fact,  every 
word.  I  heard  the  story  from  the  lawyers,  and  later, 
horse-dealer  told  it  to  me  himself,  laughing  heartily." 

Roy  went  back  to  his  studio  again,  reflecting  on  the 
glorious  uncertainty  of  the  law.  So  the  winter  days 
came  and  went,  with  pupils  to  teach,  pictures  to  paint, 
some  of  which  sold  at  art  stores,  and  some  to  Roy's 
customers.  Roy  invited  the  man  who  had  called  him 
bad  names,  and  given  him  an  order,  under  pressure,  to 
come  with  his  wife  and  see  how  they  liked  his  pictures. 
He  did  come.  The  man  had  a  painful  look,  as  if  he  was 
under  restraint.  Soon  he  began  :  "  Mr.  Bartlett,  can  you 
ever  forget  how  I  treated  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  Roy,  "  I  can,  and  I  do.  And  I 
ask  you  to  forget  it,  and  never  refer  to  it  again,  either  of 
you.  Now  please,  not  another  word,  ever,  for  each  will 
find  the  other  better  than  he  thought.  Look  at  these 
pictures." 

Roy  placed  them  in  a  good  light.  They  were  de- 
lighted. They  praised  everything.  Soon  Roy  had  them 
at  ease  and  they  had  a  nice  call.  Roy  asked  if  they  had 
heard  of  the  Art  Coterie.  Yes,  they  had.  Lawyer 
Lyman  had  called  upon  him,  and  had  told  him  that  Mr. 
Bartlett  wanted  him  to  see  his  pictures.  Then  Mr. 
Lyman  told  him  about  the  Art  Coterie.  Roy  said  he 
should  be  glad  to  have  them  come,  and  that  was  what 
pleased  them  most.  The  man  fell  in  love  with  a  nice 
panel  picture  of  Champney's  fall  and  paid  him  thirty 


A  FEIEND  IN  NEED.  229 

dollars  for  it.  The  happy  couple  departed,  smiling  clear 
around  their  faces.  Roy  sat  down  and  for  a  while  was 
content  to  do  nothing  but  smile,  and  feel  tickled  at  the 
way  the  squall  had  cleared  up. 

One  day  Roy  and  Miss  Graham  were  quietly  at  work 
in  the  studio.  There  was  a  crying  and  scratching  at  the 
door,  then  a  terrible  cry. 

Miss  Graham  said,  "  O  go,  there  is  some  one  in  dis- 
tress." 

Roy  opened  the  door,  and,  with  a  suffering  cry,  in 
came  Canis  Major.  Roy  could  hardly  believe  his  own 
eyes.  The  dog  came  up,  licked  Roy's  hand,  and  then 
his  hinder  parts  swung  around,  and  he  fell  upon  the  floor. 
He  had  a  collar  on,  and  had  evidently  broken  his  chain, 
as  a  piece  of  it  hung  to  his  neck.  He  was  lean  and  ex- 
hausted. He  had  many  bruises  and  sores,  and  his  neck, 
under  the  collar,  was  raw  and  bleeding. 

"  O,  my  poor  friend,  my  poor  friend  !  "  said  Roy. 

"  Let  us  do  something  at  once,"  said  Miss  Graham. 
"  He  is  evidently  starving." 

Roy  folded  up  an  afghan,  and  covering  it  with  papers, 
because  the  dog  was  bleeding,  he  cut  the  collar  from  his 
neck  with  many  a  kind  word,  which  Canis  Major  ac- 
knowledged with  a  little  wag  of  his  tail,  and  soon  the 
sufferer  was  lying  more  at  his  ease.  Roy  went  out  and 
got  a  pound  of  beefsteak.  Canis  Major  was  too  far  gone 
to  touch  it. 

"Get  him  some  milk  and  warm  it,"  said  Miss  Graham. 

Roy  got  a  quart  can  of  milk,  and  soon  had  some  in  a 
tin  pail  warming  on  the  radiator.  Then  Canis  Major  got 
up  on  his  fore  paws  and  lapped  a  little  of  it.  Later  he 
took  more,  and  the  quantity  was  increased,  and  before 


230  THE  WILD   ARTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

night  he  took  little  pieces  of  beefsteak.  But  after  he 
came,  there  was  no  more  work  done  that  day  by  Roy  or 
Miss  Graham. 

Roy  sent  for  Mr.  Lyman.     He  came. 

He  said :  "  Qf  all  persistent  dog-stealers,  these  are  the 
worst  that  I  have  met.  This  dog  has  some  value,  and 
would  sell  for  anywhere  from  twenty-five  to  a  hundred 
dollars  or  more." 

Said  Roy :  "  I  believe  in  government  and  law.  I  also 
believe  in  punishing  the  man  that  stole  this  dog  and 
abused  him  so.  If  the  rascal  is  smart  enough  to  cheat 
justice,  I  believe  I  am  justified  in  punishing  him  myself." 

"  That  is  what  I  think,"  said  the  lawyer. 

"  Can  you  help  me  to  do  it  ?  "  asked  Roy. 

"Yes.     I  think  so,  but  it  will  be  at  some  expense." 

"Go  ahead  then,  and  call  on  me  for  any  sum  from  ten 
to  fifty  dollars." 

"  I  will  do  it,"  said  he ;  "  and  if  I  do  not  hit  him  some- 
where, I  will  ask  nothing  for  myself.  Give  me  ten  to 
begin  with." 

Roy  gave  it  to  him.  He  said,  when  he  had  anything 
to  report  he  would  call.  Miss  Graham  bore  a  message  to 
the  Warrens,  and  they  all  came,  bringing  Roy  and  Canis 
Major  no  end  of  comforts,  even  to  a  custard  for  Canis 
Major.  The  dog  knew  them,  and  came  to  see  each  one 
and  to  kiss  the  hand  that  caressed  him.  Then  he  stag- 
gered back  to  his  afghan  and  lay  down.  It  was  truly  a 
visit  of  condolence.  Roy  stayed  in  the  studio  all  wight, 
ami  Canis  Major  slept  beside  the  sofa  on  which  Roy  lay. 

Somebody  says :  "  The  more  I  know  of  men,  the  more 
I  respect  dogs."  Roy  wrote  home  and  said  he  had  Canis 
Major,  but  he  would  not  be  well  enough  to  go  home  for 


A   FRIEND   IN   NEED.  231 

a  week.  Edric  Lyman  sauntered  from  his  office  in  School 
Street,  through  Court  Square  and  along  Court  Street 
with  a  problem  in  his  mind  of  how  to  find  the  man  who 
stole  the  dog.  There  were  not  many  who  would  do  it, 
as  far  away  as  Dover.  He  was  a  professional  criminal, 
and  either  English  or  Irish.  He  looked  at  the  hats  in 
Taylor's  hat  store,  on  the  corner  of  Hanover  Street.  Ah, 
there  was  the  policeman  that  helped  Roy  before.  The 
lawyer  greeted  him  kindly.  Soon  he  asked  if  he  ever 
found  out  who  Maginnis  was,  that  had  Roy's  dog. 

"  Yis,  sor,  I  have,  an'  he's  a  bad  lot.  There  are  two 
of  them,  father  and  son.  They  pretend  to  sell  a  few 
baskets  of  coal  and  kindlin's,  an'  they  will  stale  anything, 
from  a  dog  to  a  meetin'-house.  The  old  man  is  not  very 
old,  and  pretends  to  sell  feather  dusters.  But  it  is  only 
a  chance  to  go  around  and  find  where  to  steal.  They  are 
the  worst  enemies  the  police  have." 

Then  the  lawyer  told  the  officer  the  rest  of  the  dog 
story  and  asked  him  to  call  at  the  studio,  and  see  the  dog. 
He  did  later,  and  had  sympathy  for  him.  The  next  day 
he  asked  the  officer  if  he  was  situated  so  that  he  could 
get  any  one  who  was  down  on  these  people,  to  go  and 
punish  the  younger  one.  They  both  had  the  same  name, 
Slian  Rines. 

"  Will  ye  kape  it  to  yerself  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Officer.  Neither  of  us  will  ever  know  any- 
thing about  it." 

"  Correct,"  said  the  officer.  "  I  know  several  who  hate 
them  like  the  devil.  I  can  help  you." 

Said  the  lawyer,  "  Here  is  the  proposition  that  I  do  not 
make,  and  you*do  not  hear.  You  get  somebody  that  is 
able  to  do  it,  to  go  and  give  him  a  pounding  that  he  won't 


232  THE  WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

get  over  in  a  long  time.  Don't  kill  him,  but  hurt  him  bad. 
If  we  can't  have  justice  without  a  vigilance  committee, 
let  us  have  it  with.  Here  is  a  five-dollar  bill  for  the  man 
that  does  it.  When  it  is  done  let  me  know,  and  I  will 
give  you  another  for  yourself." 

I  am  sorry  to  say  this  was  against  the  law,  but  I  told 
you  this  story  was  in  the  actual,  and  it  is  history.  A 
little  later,  but  within  a  week,  Shan  Rines  had  a  caller, 
just  at  dusk.  He  was  a  stout  man  with  his  neck  done  up 
in  a  brown  handkerchief.  His  eyes  were  visible.  They 
walked  out  into  the  shed. 

"Wot's  the  matter  with  yer?"  asked  Shan. 

"  Neralgy.  Got  it  bad."  He  asked,  "  Is  the  old  man 
round?" 

"No."  The  stranger  leaned  on  his  thick  stick.  He 
was  lame. 

"  See  that  cat,"  said  he. 

Shan  Rines  turned  to  look  at  the  cat  and  he  got  a  clip 
that  straightened  him.  Both  hands  were  stamped  on. 
The  thick  muscles  that  he  sat  on,  were  clubbed  into  jelly. 
One  knee  .pan  was  split.  Both  ears  twisted,  his  nose 
spoiled,  teeth  knocked  out.  He  was  clubbed,  kicked,  and 
bruised  all  over,  and  all  of  it  was  done  before  he  knew  it. 
For  a  month  he  was  the  sickest  chicken  that  ever  was.  As 
soon  as  the  job  was  done,  the  neckwear  came  off,  the 
avenger  called  at  the  door  of  the  house,  and  Mrs.  Rines 
came  to  the  door.  Says  he,  "  Wot's  ever  got  Shan  ?  He's 
out  in  the  shed  fainted  away." 

"  I  guess  he's  been  a-fightin'." 

"Shall  I  go  for  a  doctor?" 

The  woman  let  out  a  yell  and  Shan  had  help.  They 
reported  it  to  the  police  and  the  police  grinned.  The 


A  FRIEND   IN   NEED.  233 

neighbors  were  very  sorry,  but  laughed  inside.  And 
everybody  that  loves  justice  at  all,  was  glad  of  it.  Later, 
both  of  them  went  behind  the  bars  for  burglary.  The 
Herald  had  an  item.  The  policeman  got  his  five  doll:n>. 
Lawyer  Lynian  called  on  Roy  and  showed  the  Herald 
item.  He  had  no  report  to  make,  except  that  justice  had 
been  done,  a  little  irregularly  perhaps,  but  still  nothing 
more  than  what  was  foreordained,  from  the  foundation  of 
the  world,  and  an  orthodox  man  ought  not  to  kick  at 
that.  Roy  saw  the  joke,  and  was  amused  at  the  applica- 
tion of  the  doctrine. 

"  How  much  ?  " 

"Oh,  give  me  two  more,  and  never  tell  the  story." 

It  was  done. 

Said  Roy,  "  I  once  thought  I  never  should  need  a  law- 
yer in  my  life.  I  never  was  going  to  sue  anybody, 
or  have  anybody  sue  me.  But  I  find  it  is  not  for  me  to 
say  whether  I  shall  have  a  lawsuit  or  not.  All  the  world 
has  the  answering  of  that  question." 

"Right,  sir,"  said  Edric  Lyman.  "And  among  all  the 
old  proverbs,  sayings,  and  chunks  of  wisdom  that  have 
come  down  to  us,  there  is  one  which  says  :  — '  Keep  my 
purse  from  the  lawyer,  my  body  from  the  doctor,  and  my 
soul  from  the  devil.'  Generally,  if  a  man  kept  the  first 
two  of  these  impossibilities,  he  would  surely  find  the 
third.  No,  sir,  we  cannot  live  without  law  and  lawyers. 
Now  let  me  give  you  a  better  sentiment.  Keep  on  the 
best  of  terms  with  a  good  lawyer,  doctor,  and  pastor : 
with  your  wife,  children,  and  conscience." 

Roy  laughed,  "  How  if  a  man  has  not  got  any  wife  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  will  mend  of  that  later." 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Roy. 


\ 


234  THE  WILD   ARTIST  IN   BOSTON. 

Said  Lawyer  Lyman,  "  If  you  want  legal  advice  on  that 
or  any  other  subject,  you  kpow  where  my  office  is,"  and 
he  went  out. 

Canis  Major  slept  in  the  studio  the  first  night,  with 
Roy.  The  second  he  went  to  Mrs.  Warren's  and  was  in 
Roy's  chamber.  He  behaved  perfectly  and  made  friends 
like  his  master.  The  next  day  there  were  pupils  and  he 
wanted  to  be  at  Roy's  side  all  the  time.  It  was  too  much. 
It  took  the  attention  of  pupils,  and  proved,  as  it  always 
does,  that  a  studio  is  a  poor  place  for  a  dog.  Roy  loved 
Canis  Major  dearly,  and  I  grieve  to  say  it,  Canis  Major 
loved  him,  and  depended  upon  him  so,  and  stuck  to  him 
so  closely,  that,  splendid  as  it  was,  it  was  a  burden.  So 
on  the  next  Saturday  afternoon,  Roy  rode  in  the  baggage 
car,  with  Canis  Major.  Ned  Foss,  Mr.  Bartlett's  new 
boy,  was  there  with  a  team,  and  the  home  was  happy 
once  more  with  Roy  and  Canis  Major.  Then  Mr.  Bart- 
lett  had  accommodations  for  the  dog  to  sleep  in  the  shed, 
under  lock  and  key,  and  he  went  to  Boston  no  more. 
Roy  called  upon  Sam  and  had  a  royal  welcome.  They 
were  all  happy.  Roy  found  his  father  and  mother  sitting 
up  for  him,  when  he  got  home,  it  being  a  little  later  than 
their  usual  bed-time ;  the  hymn  was  read,  the  psalm  of 
thanksgiving  also,  and  then  the  master  of  the  house  gave 
thanks  to  God  for  all  his  mercies,  especially  for  the  return 
of  his  dear  son  and  his  faithful  dog. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

IN    THE    STUDIO. 

BEFORE  nine  one  morning  Miss  Graham  and  Roy  came 
to  the  studio.  Roy  said  he  did  not  feel  much  like  work 
and  she  said  the  same.  He  said,  "  Miss  Graham,  you  have 
your  name  on  the  door  with  no  initial.  Yet  once  or 
twice,  you  have  had  a  letter  come  directed  to  Miss  Mary 
Graham,  else  I  should  not  have  known  your  first  name. 
Mary  is  a  beautiful  name,  that  everybody  loves  in  earth 
and  heaven.  May  I  call  you  by  your  first  name?"  He 
asked  it  very  pleasantly. 

She  looked  as  though  it  was  a  doubtful  matter  for  a 
moment,  then  she  answered.  "  Let  me  first  give  you  the 
reasons  to  base  an  answer  on,  and  you  may  answer.  If 
you  alone  were  to  have  the  privilege,  I  should  say  yes,  at 
once.  But  if  you  do,  others  will.  The  artists,  the  pupils, 
and  the  errand  boy  will  also.  You  remember  that  smart 
girl,  Miss  Lockwood.  She  is  bright,  pretty,  pert,  and 
smart.  But  she  is  not  to  blame.  You  remember,  once 
when  you  gave  her  some  instruction,  she  looked  up  in 
your  face  and  said,  '  Er  which?'  It  almost  spoilt  the 
gravity  of  the  class.  She  is  eA'idently  the  only  girl  in  a 
family  of  rough  boys.  She  knows  no  better.  Now  if 
you  and  others  do,  the  next  time  I  meet  her  in  the  street, 
she  will  greet  me  with,  Hello,  Mary.  And  I  should  not 
like  it.  I  believe  in  humility  and  I  am  not  what  is  called 

235 


236  THE  WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

'stuck  up.'  When  her  majesty's  mother  died,  she  wept; 
and  among  other  reasons  for  sorrow,  it  was  that  she  had 
lost  the  last  friend  who  had  the  right  to  call  her  by  her 
given  name.  Some  people  do  not  care  either  way.  I  do. 
My  people  have  been  people  of  dignity  and  substance. 
It  is  a  sacred  right,  seldom  acquired  and  not  transferable. 
If  no  one  could  use  it  but  you,  Mr.  Bartlett,  it  might  do. 
But  even  then  I  had  rather  address  you  as  Mr.  Bartlett 
than  by  any  other  name.  I  should  honor  you  more.  Now 
what  is  the  answer  ?  " 

Said  he,  "The  answer  is  that  'she  who  must  be 
obeyed'  shall  be  obeyed.  And  hereafter  let  no  man  de- 
ride a  woman's  reason,  for  you,  Miss  Graham,  have  given 
me  the  best  of  reasons.  If  any  cheap  people  dared  to 
use  your  first  name,  I  should  resent  it.  Now,  Miss  Gra-^ 
ham,  let  us  go  out  and  see  the  pictures  in  the  galleries." 

They  called  at  B.  S.  Moulton's  in  Hanover  street,  and 
at  J.  Eastman  Chase's.  They  came  back  to  the  studio 
and  found  Roy's  father  and  mother  waiting  for  them.  It 
was  their  first  visit  together.  Miss  Graham  was  iritro 
duced,  and  they  were  glad  to  know  her.  She  said  she 
did  not  feel  like  work  and  would  go  home.  Mrs.  Bart- 
lett objected.  She  wanted  to  know  Miss  Graham,  that 
she  had  heard  sfc  much  about. 

"  Have  you  heard  much  about  me?" 

"  Yes,  dear,  a  great  deal.  And  always  that  you  are 
helping  Roy,  and  doing  a  great  deal  of  good  to  every 
body." 

"Thank  you." 

"Now,  Roy,"  said  his  mother,  "  we  are  going  home  in 
the  five  o'clock  train.  Let  us  stay  right  here  and  visit 
you  all  the  time.  And,  Miss  Graham,  stay  too.  By  and 


IN  THE   STUDIO.  237 

by  Roy  may  go  out  and  get  some  crackers  and  cheese, 
or  some  little  thing,  to  keep  us  from  getting  faint.  Then 
we  can  have  a  good  long  visit  here  all  day.  Ned  will 
meet  us  at  half-past  seven  to-night,  when  the  train  comes 
into  Dover." 

It  was  so  ordered,  and  Miss  Graham  agreed  to  take 
lunch  in  the  studio  with  them. 

Said  Roy,  "Now  I  leave  you  for  a  few  minutes  to 
speak  for  our  lunch.  You  can  get  acquainted  with  Miss 
Graham."  Roy  went  down  to  North  Market  street  again. 
"Good  morning,  Mr.  Blanchard,  I  have  company  to-day, 
and  they  will  be  at  my  room.  I  want  something  good 
enough  for  my  father  and  mother  to  eat.  Can  you  take 
a  tray  or  box  and  send  me  up  four  tenderloin  steaks,  as 
good  as  market-men  ever  get  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir,  I  can.  They  are  all  ready  to  put  upon  the 
gridiron." 

"  Good  enough,"  said  Roy.  "  You  know  where  my 
room  is  ?  " 

"I  do.     You  know  I  was  there  to  see  your  pictures." 

"  Here  is  a  card  for  the  messenger.  And  here  is  the 
order.  Four  tenderloin  steaks,  well  done,  good  mashed 
potato,  two  slices  each  of  graham  bread,  celery,  a  quart 
can  of  coffee,  sweet,  and  milk.  I  have  plates,  knives, 
forks,  cups,  saucers,  salt  and  pepper." 

"  All  right,  Mr.  Bartlett,  it  shall  be  done  and  up  there 
a  little  before  twelve  o'clock." 

Roy  went  back  and  his  visit  began.  He  had  an  ac- 
count of  Canis  Major,  and  of  how  content  he  was  to  stay 
in  the  shed,  in  a  good  warm  bed  of  his  own,  away  from 
danger.  Miss  Graham  was  seated  beside  Mrs.  Bartlett 
and  they  seemed  to  like  each  other  well.  Roy  told  them 


238  THE  WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

of  the  "Warrens,  and  all  of  his  doings  in  art  and  the  Art 
Coterie. 

Said  Roy,  "You  did  not  eat  much  breakfast  this 
morning  ?  " 

"  No,  we  had  not  time  or  appetite,  we  were  so  full  of 
coming  here.  If  we  get  a  little  lunch  we  shall  do  well 
enough  until  we  get  home  and  then  we  shall  feast  again." 

"  Well,"  said  Roy,  "  I  guess  Boston  will  honor  my 
father  and  mother  enough  to  give  them  a  good  dinner. 
Let  us  set  the  table.  I  have  dishes  enough  for  a  lunch, 
so  I  can  have  one  here,  when  I  choose  to  send  out  for  it, 
or  get  it  myself." 

The  lunch  came  on  time  and  they  were  just  surprised. 
Blanchard's  steaks  were  as  good  as  the  queen  could  get. 
The  coffee  was  perfection,  and  there  was  all  they  could 
manage,  in  one  course.  Miss  Graham  thought  it  was  the 
best  she  ever  had,  although  her  uncle  had  orders  to  live 
on  the  best  he  could  buy.  That  Bohemian  lunch  was  a 
change  and  a  surprise,  something  unique  and  to  be  re- 
membered, as  long  as  they  lived.  They  invited  Miss 
Graham  to  visit  them  in  the  spring,  and  Roy  said  he 
should  ask  her  to  make  it  the  week  that  Whitsunday 
came  in,  so  as  to  see  New  Hampshire  when  the  apple 
trees  are  in  full  bloom. 

When  the  time  was  up,  the  parents  were  escorted  to 
the  station,  and  the  artists  had  found  a  day  of  vacation 
and  a  change.  The  next  day  there  were  pupils.  It  was 
a  busy  forenoon.  If  there  is  anything  on  earth  that  is 
entitled  to  respect,  it  is  a  palette  of  color.  Without  art, 
the  poor  tortured  color  becomes  mud.  With  art,  it  has 
possibilities  of  all  beauty.  Some  people  have  not  much 
more  idea  of  beauty  than  a  horse.  I  was  travelling 


IN  THE    STUDIO.  239 

among  the  White  Mountains  once,  and  stopped  at  a 
house  to  get  a  drink  from  their  well  in  the  yard.  The 
view  was  of  the  very  finest.  I  looked  at  it  long  and 
lovingly.  A  girl  of  fourteen  came  near.  I  said,  "You 
have  a  splendid  view  of  the  mountains  here." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  view  enough  for  them  that  like  it." 

"Don't  you  like  the  mountains?" 

"No,  I  don't;  I  hate  'em." 

And  from  the  way  her  eyes  snapped,  I  knew  that  she 
meant  it. 

Said  I,  "  Have  you  ever  been  on  the  mountains  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have ,  an'  it  is  the  meanest,  most  misable 
place  in  the  whole  world.  I  wish  I  could  never  see 
another  mountain  as  long  as  I  live.  I  hate  'em." 

Just  then  a  four-years-old  boy  came  along.  He  was 
a  bright,  pretty,  well  dressed  boy,  perhaps  the  girl's  little 
brother.  Said  I,  "Have  you  been  on  the  mountains?" 

He  looked  at  me,  and  answered,  "  Do  you  think  I  am 
a  fool?" 

I  have  recorded  it  word  for  word.  My  companion  was 
much  amused  by  it.  It  was  Mr.  Lucas  Baker,  artist,  late 
of  the  Massachusetts  Normal  Art  School,  now  teaching 
in  New  York.  I  never  was  so  completely  shut  up  in  my 
life.  It  was  funny  enough  to  last  a  fortnight.  These 
were  no  poor  people.  But  they  had  a  knowledge  of  the 
mountains,  as  rocky,  barren  deserts,  with  possibilities  of 
bears  and  wild  beasts,  and  a  place  whence  people  returned 
tired  and  exhausted,  and  often  wounded  and  bleeding. 
What  to  eat  has  often  to  be  learned,  what  to  admire  more 
so.  So  these  by  no  means  foolish  people  had  their  own 
idea  of  the  mountains.  So  people  have  their  ideas 
of  art. 


2-10  THE   WILD  ARTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

Roy's  pupils  were  getting  a  start  in  the  right  direction. 
After  they  were  gone,  the  afternoon  was  more  at  leisure. 
Two  artists  called.  They  were  neighbors,  and  were  wel- 
come. They  looked  over  the  pictures,  gnve  him  reason- 
able praise,  and  Miss  Graham  also,  and  did  not  score 
them  down  with  caustic  criticism.  It  is  a  good  way,  to 
enjoy  a  thing  for  what  it  is,  and  not  sting  the  author  to 
death  for  what  it  is  not.  v 

A  gentleman  and  lady  called.  They  were  admitted, 
and  at  once  Roy  gave  his  artist  friends  an  illustrated 
book  to  keep  them  busy,  while  he  attended  to  the  visitors^ 
They  were  a  good-looking  pair,  evidently  well  situated, 
and  not  very  long  married.  The  man  spoke  but  little. 
There  was  that  in  his  manner  which  seemed  to  say,  Now 
I  am  the  escort,  and  you  have  nobody  to  please  but  my 
wife.  You  take  me  in  my  own  business,  and  I  know 
my  rights,  and  want  them.  He  introduced  them,  say- 
ing :  "  We  are  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Quince.  Mrs.  Quince  wishes 
to  take  lessons  in  painting." 

The  lady  opened.  "  Yes,  Mr.  Bartlctt,  I  have  long 
heard  of  you  and  your  success  in  teaching,  and  I  have 
seen  your  pictures  at  the  Art  Club  and  in  the  galleries. 
The  elegance  of  the  foliage,  the  buttery  richness  of  fore- 
ground, the  mysterious  art  of  the  perspective,  and  the 
general  chiaroscuro,  compel  one  to  remain  and  enjoy  the 
subtle  beauty  of  your  landscapes,  until  one  almost  forgets 
it  is  art,  and  not  Nature  in  her  happiest  mood.  O 
Mr.  Bartlett,  what  a  delight  it  must  be  to  paint  as 
you  do." 

Mr.  Bartlett  bowed  ;  her  husband  looked  resigned. 

"  When  can  I  come  for  a  lesson  ?  " 

"  With  the  class,  Tuesdays,  Thursdays,  and  Saturdays, 


IN   THE   STUDIO.  241 

at  one  dollar  each  lesson.  Single  lessons,  on  other  days, 
one  dollar  and  a  half." 

She  answered,  "  I  think  I  can  come  better  on  Tuesdays 
and  Thursdays  than  other  days.  I  will  send  my  servant 
with  easel  and  color  box  before  next  Tuesday."  She 
looked  at  the  pictures,  and  talked  most  elaborately.  At 
last  she  swam,  to  the  door.  Then,  with  a  smile  which 
was  the  consummation  of  all  graciousness,  an  obeisance 
which  was  the  combined  result  of  all  our  highest  refine- 
ments, and  a  nod  from  her  husband,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Quince  were  gone.  This  is  a  portrait. 

Roy  came  in  after  seeing  them  going  downstairs. 
There  was  an  amused  smile  upon  Miss  Graham's  face, 
and  a  broad  grin  upon  each  man.  Roy  took  a  fan 
and  sat  down,  saying,  "I  ain't  well.  Suthin's  come 
over  me." 

He  fanned  a  little,  and  they  all  laughed  heartily. 

Said  George,  "  O  we  poor  artists  have  a  tough  time.  I 
often  get  an  avalanche  of  the  richest  and  most  ornamental 
language  slung  at  me,  until  I  am  stuck  full  of  it ;  and  it 
is  a  positive  relief  when  some  low-down  comes  in  and 
says  something  unparliamentary.  It  is  an  awful  respon- 
sibility that  a  poor  artist  has,  to  be  obliged  to  skirmish 
round  in  art  for  his  bread  and  butter,  and  to  be  in  mortal 
fear  of  an  attack  of  the  dictionary." 

Said  Roy  :  "  When  will  people  learn  the  beauty  of 
simplicity ;  that  beauty  when  unadorned  is  adorned  the 
most.  When  will  they  learn  that  the  simplest  lan- 
guage is  the  best.  That 

"  '  You  see  a  woman  simply  drest, 
You  see  that  woman  at  her  best.' 


242  THE   WILD   ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

Of  course,  a  dress  may  be  ever  so  rich,  and  still  have  the 
element  of  simplicity  in  it.  Even  a  glass  of  water  is 
better  in  a  large,  plain  tumbler  than  in  a  little,  fussed-up 
one." 

"  Yes,"  said  Frank.  "  I  like  a  plain,  unfigured  tumbler 
best ;  but  I  do  not  choose  a  cheap,  five-cent  one.  I  want 
a  good  one.  The  fact  is,  that  almost  all  truth  is  only 
part  truth,  and  not  of  universal  application.  Nature  is 
plain  to  severity,  and  she  is  ornamental  and  intricate 
beyond  all  expression.  She  has  a  plain  sky,  and  soon  she 
changes  it  to  a  mackerel  sky  that  no  one  can  paint.  She 
has  a  plain  moonlight,  and  changes  that,  and  hangs  out 
all  the  stars  in  the  sky.  She  has  a  plain  field  of  grass, 
and  the  next  one  is  starred  with  daisies  that  no  man  can 
number.  She  has  a  calm  sea,  and  in  an  hour  it  is  beating 
its  waves  upon  the  shore,  in  the  despair  of  art.  Arid  so 
I  like  plain  things  that  I  like,  and  I  like  a  reasonable 
amount  of  filigree  and  ornament." 

Said  George :  "  That  seems  to  give  you  all  the  lati- 
tude you  want." 

"Jess  so,  as  William  "Warren  says,  and  I  like  plenty 
of  sea  room.  I  do  not  mean  to  admire  any  artist's  pict- 
ure because  it  is  the  fashion  to  do  so.  Of  course,  no 
one  can  get  to  be  the  fashion  in  a  great  city,  without 
being  a  good  artist.  But  there  are,  many  times,  pictures 
that  pass  for  more  than  they  are  worth." 

"  Whose,  for  instance  ?  "  asked  Miss  Graham. 

"  Corot's." 

"  I  think  so,"  said  she. 

"  Still  there  is  art  in  them,"  said  Frank.  "  I  attended 
a  sale  of  a  popular  artist.  His  pictures  brought  from 
fifty,  to  several  thousand  dollars  each.  I  since  saw  a 


IN  THE   STUDIO.  243 

large  picture  of  his  that  was  appraised  at  twenty  thou- 
sand dollars,  put  up  at  auction  and  offered  to  be  sold,  if 
any  one  would  start  it  at  ten  thousand  dollars.  No  one 
offered  to  start  it  at  ten  thousand  but  after  waiting  a 
moment  for  an  offer,  a  man  offered  to  start  it  at  six 
thousand.  The  offer  was  not  taken  and  the  picture  with- 
drawn. "Well,  at  this  sale,  there  was  one  picture,  about 
twelve  by  eighteen  inches  in  size,  entitled  on  the  cata- 
logue, '  Donkey  Approaching  a  River.'  I  think  it  sold 
for  a  hundred  dollars.  It  was  a  poor  specimen  of  this 
artist's  work.  After  the  sale  a  messenger  carne  for  it. 
He  had  the  bill  receipted.  They  looked  among  the  pict- 
ures and  at  last  found  it.  They  got  it  up  in  a  good 
light.  I  was  there  and  saw  it.  They  laughed  over  it. 
Said  the  messenger :  '  Are  you  sure  this  is  a  donkey  ap- 
proaching a  river?'  'Oh,  yes,  this  is  it.'  Then  be  kind 
enough  to  tell  me  which  is  the  donkey,  and  which  the 
river.  They  pretended  to  debate  which  was  which.  At 
last  one  man  said  he  had  found  out  how  it  was.  Said 
he,  pointing  to  the  road,  that  led  to  the  river :  '  This  is 
the  river,  and  the  donkey  is  the  man  that  paid  a  hundred 
dollars  for  the  picture.'  This  seemed  to  strike  the 
crowd  very  cheerfully.  But  this  artist,  whom  I  have  not 
named,  did  often  get  some  very  wonderful  effects  in  his 
work." 

Said  Roy :  "  Now  we  have  talked  art,  let  us  have  a 
story.  Mr.  George,  please  tell  us  the  story  of  the  happi- 
est day  you  have  had,  this  last  summer." 

George  looked  up  with  a  queer  smile.  Said  he, 
"You've  just  hit  it.  It  is  a  leading  question.  But  you 
are  such  a  good  fellow,  I  am  going  to  tell  you  the 
story  of 


244  THE  WILD  ARTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

"  The  Artist's  Happiest  Day  ! " 

I  was  busy  most  of  the  summer  in  Boston.  I  only  got 
away  a  little,  and,  as  I  had  good  orders,  I  made  big 
money  by  filling  them.  There  was  a  young  lady  whom  I 
have  known  for  some  time,  and,  as  she  was  not  going 
away  much,  I  proposed.  Oh,  you  did,  said  Frank.  Yes, 
I  proposed  that  as  we  were  two  poor  "  onfortnits  "  that 
did  not  go  to  Saratoga  or  Newport,  I  thought  we  might 
go  to  Nantasket  for  a  day.-  She  agreed.  I  told  her  I, 
would  be  commissary  and  provide.  Only  she  had  better 
bring  a  light  waterproof,  in  case  of  weather.  I  could 
take  them  in  my  pocket  or  satchel.  I  asked  her  for  them, 
when  I  met  her,  but  she  had  them  safe  and  ready  for 
use  when  wanted.  I  like  to  help  a  woman,  and  I  also 
like  to  have  a  woman  have  the  will  to  help  herself. 
Then  she  is  able  to  do  it,  if  obliged  to.  We  went  down 
in  an  early  boat,  the  Rose  Standish.  I  had  a  hand-bag 
slung  at  my  side,  and  not  at  all  in  the  way.  Oh,  the 
morning  was  bright,  and  just  the  right  temperature. 
The  lady  was  interested  and  agreeable.  We  intended  to 
have  a  happy  time,  and  there  was  not  a  jar  or  bit  of  fric- 
tion, all  day.  We  walked  slowly  up  the  beach  toward 
Boston  Light.  We  took  our  time  and  sat  and  rested 
when  we  wanted  to.  I  had  two  or  three  books,  and  I 
read  selections.  She  asked  for  my  books  and  read  me 
selections  that  I  did  not  know  of.  There  is  no  end  to 
the  possibilities  of  a  Boston  girl. 

Miss  Graham  said :  "  Thank  you,  sir,"  which  pleased 
them  all. 

I  took  some  pencil  sketches,  and  ourselves  in  them  as 
figures,  walking  down  the  beach.  We  walked  slowly 


IN  THE   STUDIO.  245 

down  the  beach  to  the  cliff  at  the  southern  en^.  It  was 
noon.  We  went  upon  the  high  ground  where  M-e  could 
see  the  whole  length  of  the  beach,  and  south  by  Minot's 
Light  and  beyond.  We  had  the  whole  Atlantic  before 
us.  It  was  a  smooth,  pleasant,  grassy  spot,  where  we 
sat  down.  I  have  it  well  marked.  I  said  I  was  hungry, 
and  asked  her  if  she  could  get  along  on  crackers  and 
cheese.  Oh,  yes,  well  enough.  I  opened  my  commissary 
department,  and  took  out  a  small  paper  bag  with  six 
crackers  and  a  piece  of  cheese.  I  spread  it  out  on  a 
large  napkin,  and  the  napkin  on  a  paper.  I  asked  her  if 
she  could  live  on  that  until  we  got  home.  Oh,  yes 
indeed,  besides  I  have  two  apples  in  my  pocket,  and  she 
laid  them  out  on  the  napkin.  Well,  said  I,  I  am  not  so 
easily  suited  as  you  are.  I  am  going  to  have  something 
decent  for  dinner.  Then  I  took  out  a  quarter  box  of 
Philippe  and  Canaud  sardines,  a  lemon,  two  boiled  eggs, 
two  good  slices  of  cold  corned  beef,  two  of  bread  and 
butter,  two  chunks  of  pound  cake,  a  piece  easily  divided 
of  wedding  cake,  a  pint  of  cracked  English  walnuts,  a 
pint  of  Japan  tea  sweetened,  and  some  candy,  two  china 
plates  and  two  silver  cups.  By  Jove,  you  ought  to  have 
heard  her  laugh.  We  both  had  Nantasket  appetites, 
and  that  is  something  phenomenal.  We  took  our  time 
about  it,  and  I  think  we  were  through  a  little  before  two. 
That  dinner  had  disappeared  like  dew  before  the  sun. 
The  air  was  just  perfect,  and  the  ocean  as  calm  as  in 
Landseer's  picture  of  peace.  We  waited,  we  reclined  on 
the  grass,  we  rested.  We  voted  it  the  perfection  of  all 
days,  a  summer  vacation  in  itself.  A  thought  which  had 
long  been  in  my  mind,  was  present  all  day.  I  said  :  Then 
the  day  is  a  satisfactory  one  to  you,  Annie  ?  Yes,  it  is. 


246  THE   WILD  AKTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,  Annie,  I  am  always  happy 
when  I  am  with  you.  Are  you  ?  she  asked.  Yes,  I  am. 
I  am  glad  of  it,  said  she.  Then  said  I,  why  should  we 
not  be  one, and  be  together  always?  It  has  long  been  in 
my  mind  to  ask  you,  and  now  I  must.  Will  you,  Annie  ? 
I  will  do  my  best  for  you  always.  There  was  no  one  in 
sight.  I  spread  the  umbrella  and  kissed  her  tears  away. 
The  promise  is  not  yet  fulfilled,  but  will  be  soon.  The 
afternoon  had  sped  away,  and  we  took  the  six  o'clock 
boat  for  home.  As  we  sailed  toward  Boston,  we  saw  our 
city,  dressed  in  the  golden  glory  of  the  setting  sun. 
Apart  from  the  day,  and  what  we  had  promised,  it  was 
the  most  golden  sea  that  we  sailed  in,  and  the  effect  of 
the  luminous  air  over  Boston,  and  a  sky  with  small,  but 
most  brilliant  clouds  floating  over  all,  fitly  closed  the 
pleasantest  day  of  my  last  summer,  as  well  as  the  happi- 
est, most  blessed  day  of  my  life.  Mister  George  re- 
ceived the  congratulations  of  the  three  listeners,  and 
thanks  for  his  most  interesting  story. 

Said  Roy,  "O  it  is  the  old,  sweet  story,  as  old  as 
Eden,  and  as  new  as  the  last  love  that  has  come  to  bless 
mankind.  It  is  the  Grand  Old  Passion  that  makes  the 
world  go  round.  So  may  it  come  to  all  of  us." 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

HAIL    TO*    THE    CHIEF. 

FOR  three  days  Roy's  studio  door  had  borne  a  notice, 
saying :  The  Art  Coterie  will  entertain  itself  on  Thurs- 
day evening,  at  the  usual  time  and  place,  perhaps,  to  see 
a  vision  of  the  man  whom  our  country  most  delights  to 
honor.  People  looked  and  wondered.  Good  artists  had 
the  tableau  in  charge.  Miss  Graham  could  keep  a  secret. 
The  evening  was  pleasant,  and  the  company  was  the  size 
of  the  house.  Miss  Graham  gave  a  selection  upon  the 
piano,  and  it  was  worthy  of  the  applause  it  received. 
Then  Roy  called  upon  the  veracious  author  of  this  book, 
to  edify  the  company.  Mr.  Wiggin  came  forward  with 
his  heart  and  a  lozenge  in  his  mouth,  but  both  went 
down,  a  moment  later,  and  have  not  been  heard  of  since. 
He  began  :  Members  of  the  Art  Coterie,  your  chairman 
has  introduced  me  in  just  the  right  way.  I  always  get 
laughed  at,  every  time  I  try  it.  This  time  I  have  all  the 
latitude  I  wish.  I  cannot  treat  so  large  a  company.  You 
would  not  wish  me  to  sing  a  song.  I  do  not  know  how 
to  make  an  entertaining  speech,  good  enough  for  you,  and 
therefore  I  must  do  that  which  most  people  like,  tell 
stories.  They  will  be  true  ones.  How  common  it  is  to 
hear  people  called  crank  or  fool.  It  has  sometimes  been 
my  privilege  to  be  so  honored.  It  was  written  long  ago, 
that  he  that  increaseth  knowledge,  increaseth  sorrow.  It 

247 


248  THE   WILD   ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

is  a  half  truth  at  best.  The  more  a  man  knows  of  litera- 
ture, the  more  he  can  enjoy  of  the  stores  of  rich  thought 
of  others.  The  more  he  knows  of  what  is  'good  in  art, 
the  more  beauty  he  can  see  in  Art  and  Nature  too.  This 
is  a  double  blessing.  Nature  is  like  the  sun,  and  Art  is 
like  the  moon,  which  reflects  her  light.  We  give  thanks 
for  both.  It  has  been  my  business  to  make  some  Art 
goods,  and  I  like  to  know  as  much  of  the  use,  construc- 
tion, and  value  of  what  I  see,  as  I  can.  If  I  go  to  an 
auction  sale,  I  look  about  me,  and  sometimes  I  find  a 
thing  of  use  or  beauty  that  is  desirable.  Once,  however, 
I  attended  a  sale,  and  acted  very  ridiculously,  without 
being  conscious  of  it  at  all.  It  was  a  large  sale  at 
Leonard's,  of  portraits  and  other  pictures,  partly  the  re- 
mains of  Ransom's  estate.  He  had  long  made  portraits 
in  Boston,  and  had  left  some  unfinished  pictures.  Some 
were  portraits  of  old  women,  homely  enough  to  stop  a 
clock.  Nobody  would  bid.  I  went  up  and  scratched  on 
one  side  of  the  pictures.  If  the  result  was  satisfactory,  I 
bid  twenty-five  cents.  It  was  struck  off  to  me.  The 
next,  the  same,  and  so  on  for  ten  pictures.  Then  I  shook 
my  head,  instead  of  nodding  assent.  Well,  how  much? 
asked  Joseph  Leonard.  Ten  cents.  It  was  mine.  The 
crowd  laughed.  It  was  a  very  funny  auction.  I  did  not 
want  the  pictures  at  all,  but  I  could  use  them  at  the  price 
I  was  paying  for  them.  The  sale  went  on.  Mr.  Leonard 
started  them  at  twenty-five  cents  each,  and  a  nod  from 
me  accepted  them.  A  few  I  took  at  ten  cents.  Every 
time  a  picture  came  to  me,  they  were  merry  over  it. 
There  were  some  awful  old  virgins  among  them.  When 
the  sale  was  done,  I  had  about  seventy  pictures,  and  I 
said  to  Mr.  Leonard  :  I  will  send  an  expressman  for  them 


HAIL   TO   THE   CHIEF.  249 

this  afternoon,  so  please  have  them  together.  If  there 
are  any  which  others  have  bid  off,  that  are  not  called  for, 
put  them  in  with  mine,  at  the  price  I  bid,  and,  I  added, 
I  don't  see  what  anybody  but  me  wants  of  such  pictures. 
The  crowd  laughed  uproariously.  All  right,  said  Mr. 
Joseph  Leonard.  I  went  out  and  got  my  lunch.  It  was 
a  pleasant  day,  and  I  was  as  quiet  in  my  mind  as  a  pan  of 
milk. 

Perhaps  I  had  better  say,  right  here,  that  I  have  no 
crazy  blood  in  me.  I  can  trace  my  ancestry  back 
through  good  people,  as  far  as  any  one  I  know.  So  I 
am  not  a  luniac.  I  know  you  never  heard  that  word  be- 
fore. Perhaps  I  had  better  explain  and  qualify  a  little. 
My  mother-in-law  had  a  cousin  who  was  rather  flighty. 
But  I  never  could  see  that  it  affected  my  sanity.  Here 
you  can  smile.  So  I  persist  in  feeling  perfectly  sane  at 
the  bottom.  Bunchy  and  full  of  the  old  boy,  of  course, 
but  still  more  or  less  sane. 

Here  a  friend  of  Mr.  Wiggin,  who  had  been  on  jolly 
excursions  with  him,  let  out  a  Haw,  Haw,  Haw,  which 
became  epidemic  in  the  audience. 

Mr.  Wiggin  resumed  :  Then  I  went  along  toward  home. 
I  called  in  at  the  artist's  materials  store  of  Mr.  F.  C. 
Hastings  &  Co.  At  the  desk  sat  Mr.  George  Hastings. 
Said  he,  "  Have  you  been  to  Leonard's  auction  this  morn- 
ing?" "I  have."  "What  do  you  suppose  I  heard  of 
you  just  now,  Mr.  Wiggin ? "  "I  do  not  know ;  some- 
thing pleasant,  I  presume."  "  Shall  I  tell  you  ?  "  asked 
Mr.  Hastings.  "  Certainly,  I  should  be  pleased  to  know." 
"Well,  sir,"  said  he,  "there  was  a  man  in  here  just  now, 
and  he  had  come  from  Leonard's  auction.  He  said  he 
had  seen  the  biggest  fool  that  he  had  ever  seen  in  his  life. 


250  THE  WILD   ARTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

A  man  perfectly  crazy.  And  his  name  was  Wiggin.  He 
stood  beside  the  auctioneer,  and  bought  a  large  lot  of  hor- 
rible old  portraits  and  pictures,  that  nobody  would  bid 
on.  Everything  that  no  one  would  start  at  any  price,  he 
would  take  for  twenty-five  cents,  except  that  once  in  a 
while,  he  would  only  bid  ten  cents.  O  he  was  an  awful 
fool,  clean  crazy."  I  laughed,  I  had  to.  Said  I,  "  Well, 
Mr.  Hastings,  what  did  you  tell  him?"  "I  told  him  I 
knew  a  Mr.  Wiggin  who  makes  goods  for  us,  and  he  was 
a  long  way  from  being  crazy.  In  fact  I  told  him  that  Mr. 
Wiggin  knew  what  he  was  buying."  "I  think  you  are 
right,  Mr.  Hastings.  Those  old  portraits  were  on  extra 
frames  that  I  had  made  for  a  dollar  apiece,  and  under 
each  worthless  portrait  was  an  extra  heavy,  clean  canvas, 
making  them  worth  two  dollars  each,  beside  the 
portrait.  And  some  of  the  portraits  are  good.  If  I  can- 
not get  a  dime  out  of  that  hour  at  Leonard's,  then  I  mis- 
take. But  I  was  the  only  man  in  the  room  that  knew  the 
value  that  was  covered  up  under  those  portraits."  "I 
knew  it  was  all  right,"  said  Mr.  George  Hastings,  "  and  I 
told  him  so."  It  is  a  good  thing  for  a  man  to  know  his 
own  value.  It  is  w.ritten,  "  What  shall  a  man  give  in  ex- 
change for  his  soul?"  Now,  if  it  is  wise  to  know  one's 
own  value,  it  is  wise  to  increase  one's  own  value.  This 
the  artist  does,  as  he  improves  in  his  work.  Let  him  be 
very  sure  of  what  he  can  do,  and  not  overestimate  him- 
self. 

There  were  three  brothers  in  Philadelphia,  artists  and 
good  fellows  all.  One  was  a  photographer,  and  O  the 
beautiful,  picturesque  stereoscopic  views  he  has  made, 
some  of  which  I  have  copies  of.  One  of  the  brothers 
went  to  England.  He  made  fiue  oil  studies  of  the  old 


HAIL  TO   THE   CHIEF.  251 

castles,  ruins,  and  whatever  was  best  material  for  him.  I 
visited  him  in  his  studio  in  Philadelphia,  after  his  return 
from  Europe.  Here  is  the  story  that  he  told. 

The  American  Artist  in  London. 

One  day  I  went  to  the  National  Gallery  in  London.  I 
took  my  time  about  it,  and  looked  over  all  the  pictures. 
I  saw  some  being  copied.  I  asked  the  janitor  if  it  was 
allowed  to  copy  any  pictures.  Yes,  sir.  You  can  copy 
hany  picture  'ere.  I  told  him  I  would  like  to  copy  "Tur- 
ner's Shipwreck."  I  got  the  size  of  the  canvas,  and  told 
him  I  would  send  canvas  and  easel  in  the  morning,  as  soon 
as  the  gallery  was  open,  and  I  would  make  it  right  with 
him  if  he  would  care  for  them.  This  he  agreed  to  do. 
Then  he  went  back  to  some  men  he  had  been  talking 
with,  and  I  heard  him  say,  'Ere's  a  Hamerican  wot's  a- 
goin'  to  copy  "  Turner's  Shipwreck."  Isn't  it  'igh  ?  They 
all  laughed.  The  next  morning  my  easel  'and  canvas 
were  on  time,  and  I  was  ready  soon  after  the  gallery  was 
open.  It  was  a  good  day.  The  janitor  was  having  many 
callers,  and  he  told  them  all.  They  laughed  and  had  no 
end  of  fun  of  it.  The  presumption  of  these  Hamericans 
was  'orrible.  I  took  a  large  palette  and  put  on  a  pile  of 
color.  I  took  my  coat  off.  I  got  two  or  three  measures 
and  then  put  a  large  patch  of  color  right  into  the  middle 
of  the  canvas.  They  were  immensely  amused.  There 
were  from  six  to  twenty  persons  watching  me  all  the 
time.  Soon  there  was  a  large  piece  of  canvas  covered. 
Then  I  laid  on  my  color  to  stay,  and  the  picture  began  to 
grow.  As  fast  as  I  put  the  color  on,  it  was  "Turner's 
Shipwreck."  It  was  like  it,  and  it  was  just  as  good. 
They  laughed  no  more.  They  tiptoed  around  me.  They 


252  THE  WILD   ARTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

looked  through  their  hands.  They  did  not  cease  to 
watch  me.  I  did  not  see  them  at  all,  but  I  observed 
them  all.  I  worked  the  best  I  knew,  and  I  was  satisfied 
with  what  I  was  doing.  I  knew  their  eyes  were  on  me 
for  criticism,  and  I  gave  them  no  chance.  The  janitor 
asked  if  I  needed  anything.  No,  I  was  all  right.  I  must 
cover  my  canvas  to-day.  It  ought  not  to  be  over  a  day's 
work  to  copy  such  a  picture  as  that.  He  looked  dismayed 
and  I  wanted  to  laugh,  but  I  kept  busy.  One  man  asked 
if  the  picture  was  for  sale.  No,  I  did  not  wish  to  sell  it. 
So  I  kept  on.  A  little  later,  a  fine-looking  gentleman 
came  up  and  praised  my  copy.  In  a  few  minutes  more, 
he  gave  me  an  invitation  to  dine  with  him.  I  declined. 
When  the  light  began  to  fail  in  the  afternoon,  my  copy 
was  done,  and  I  had  five  invitations  to  dinner.  The 
artist  farther  continued.  Now  all  I  have  said  is  only  on 
my  assertion.  But  here  on  this  wall  is  another  copy  of 
"Turner's  Shipwreck,"  just  a  quarter  of  the  size  of  the 
original.  You  can  judge  by  this,  whether  my  full-size 
copy  was  good  for  anything  or  not. 

I  gave  my  verdict,  at  once,  that  it  was  a  wonderful, 
splendid  copy.  And  I  hereby  add  that  the  artist,  Mr. 
Thomas  Moran,  is  a  splendid  artist  and  good  fellow,  and 
the  hour  that  I  passed  in  his  studio  was  most  entertaining. 
His  pictures  are  often  in  chromo.  I  have  his  photograph 
coming  in  with  the  Philadelphia  Art  Club.  If  there  is 
anything  I  do  admire,  it  is  to  see  a  man  that  knows  some- 
thing. I  had  a  visit  of  several  days  in  Philadelphia,  and 
a  good  time  in  them  all.  I  almost  always  do  have  a  good 
time,  for  I  keep  them  on  hand,  ready  made,  like  an  enter- 
prising hardware  firm  that  I  once  knew.  They  circum- 
vented frozen  ground  by  keeping  post-holes,  ready  dug, 
for  sale. 


HAIL  TO   THE   CHIEF.  253 

The,  Story  of  the  Nun  and  the  Artist. 

The  scene  changes  to  a  studio  in  Ohio.  The  artist  was 
at  work,  one  day,  when  a  knock  came  on  his  door.  He 
admitted  a  short,  stout,  clean-shaven  man,  who  had  on  a 
Roman  collar,  and  was  a  Roman  Catholic  priest.  He 
looked  at  the  pictures  and  talked  of  art.  He  asked  the 
artist  if  he  ever  repaired  pictures.  Yes,  often.  He  had 
studied  with  a  figure  painter  and  often  had  figure  pieces 
to  repair  and  varnish.  The  priest  engaged  the  artist  to 
go  to  an  institution,  a  home  of  Sisters  of  Chanty,  and  look 
at  a  large  picture  of  the  "  Annunciation  "  in  the  recep- 
tion room.  He  went  there,  examined  the  picture,  and 
reported  that  it  could  be  made  as  good  as  new,  but  it 
would  take  four  or  five  visits  to  finish  it,  as  the  browns 
had  cracked  so  badly  in  the  bottom  of  the  picture.  The 
price  was  satisfactory.  The  picture  was  taken  from  the 
frame  and  the  artist  began  his  work.  Two  or  three  nuns 
came  and  looked  at  him  as  he  painted.  He  was  a  fine 
looking  and  appearing  young  man,  and  a  good  artist. 
The  lady  superior  was  engaged  with  company,  and  after 
the  other  nuns  had  gone  out,  one  remained  to  look  at 
him.  She  was  about  twenty-four  years  old,  tall  and 
handsome.  He  spoke  to  her.  Do  you  like  pictures? 
Speak  low,  she  said,  the  walls  have  ears.  Yes,  I  do,  very 
much.  They  conversed  in  a  low  tone.  He  looked  at 
her,  and  what  he  saw  in  her  face  prompted  him  to  ask, 
Are  you  happy  here  and  glad  to  stay  ?  She  shook  her 
head  sadly.  Do  you  wish  to  get  away?  I  do.  I  was 
prevailed  upon  to  come,  and  I  have  been  sorry  ever  since. 
He  said,  I  expect  to  come  here  again  next  Thursday.  Try 
to  come  in  and  see  me  paint,  and  I  will  talk  with  you 


254  THE  WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

again  about  it.  I  shall  be  glad  to  serve  you,  for  you  have 
impressed  me  very  much.  Thank  you,  sir,  she  said.  Yes, 
very  much,  he  added.  More  than  any  woman  I  ever  saw. 
Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  am  telling  this  story  exactly  as 
the  artist  himself  told  it  to  me.  She  went  out  of  the  room. 
He  removed  the  loose  crackly  browns  of  the  corner  which 
were  peeled  up  all  ready  to  rattle  off.  Then  he  laid  it  in 
strong  of  umber,  burnt  sienna  and  ochre,  leaving  out  the 
asphaltum  which  had  made  it  crack.  He  left  the  picture 
one  good  stage  towards  stability.  The  lady  superior 
came  in.  She  asked  if  any  one  had  been  in  the  room. 
Yes,  madam.  Two  or  three  people  had  looked  in  or 
passed  through  the  room.  There,  said  he,  I  will  try  to 
come  again  next  Thursday,  and  advance  it  another  stage. 
He  picked  up  his  color  box  and  retired,  leaving  two  peo- 
ple to  think  much  of  his  next  visit. 

They  say  love  laughs  at  locksmiths,  and  will  go  where 
it  is  sent  in  spite  of  bolts  and  bars.  Certain  it  is,  the 
nun  had  a  picture  in  her  mind,  and  it  was  not  the  "  An- 
nunciation," which  she  cared  nothing  about,  but  it  was 
the  honest  young  artist  who  had  told  her  that  rare  and 
inspiring  story,  that  she  had  impressed  him  more  than 
any  one,  of  all  the  daughters  of  Eve.  And  he  painted 
and  mused,  and  he  sighed,  and  he  painted. 

The  next  Thursday  brought  him  to  the  home  of  the 
Sisters  of  Charity.  The  lady  superior  met  him  and  he 
was  soon  at  his  work.  As  it  was  reception  day,  she  was 
soon  busy  with  other  visitors,  who  were  entertained  in 
the  sitting-room  or  chapel,  library  or  embroidery  room. 
An  hour  elapsed  and  the  artist's  work  was  well  advanced 
for  the  day.  He  feared  he  should  not  see  the  face  he 
was  so  much  interested  in,  when  the  door  softly  opened, 


HAIL  TO   THE  CHIEF.  255 

and  she  was  at  his  side.  He  shook  her  hand  warmly. 
She  said  she  was  afraid  she  should  not  get  a  chance  to 
slip  in  and  see  him.  The  artist  was  glad  to  welcome  hei-, 
and  he  told  her  she  was  in  his  thoughts  all  the  time, 
since  he  had  seen  her,  a  week  before.  She  said  she  was 
glad  of  it.  If  she  failed  to  see  him  the  next  Thursday,  it 
would  be  because  she  was  too  closely  watched,  and  could 
not  come.  She  would  see  him  if  she  could  possibly.  He 
hoped  so.  Now,  said  she,  I  must  go.  He  looked  at  her 
as  only  a  lover  can,  and  they  kissed  each  other.  It  was 
a  sure  thing  after  that.  She  was  gone.  He  left  his 
work  well  advanced,  so  as  to  be  ready  for  the  higher 
lights  after  drying  a  week.  He  went  away,  but  he  left 
his  heart  behind  him.  There  was  another  in  that  great 
building,  in  the  same  condition.  For  two  people  it  was 
a  long,  uninteresting  week.  Nothing  had  any  flavor  to 
it.  Neither  one  had  anything  they  wanted,  or  wanted 
what  they  had.  Mr.  Mantalini  said,  "  My  life  is  one 
demd  horrid  grind."  I  suppose  it  is  not  too  much  to 
say,  that  all  who  love  beauty  are  susceptible  people.  It 
follows  that  all  susceptible  people  are  likely  to  fall  in 
love.  When  they  do  fall  in  love,  the  Grand  Old  Passion 
possesses  them  to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else.  It  is 
an  awful  condition  to  be  in,  and  yet,  I  suppose  those  are 
the  most  truly  unfortunate  who  have  never  loved  at  all. 
It  is  a  nebulous  kind  of  a  paradox.  Even  Solomon, 
himself,  a  man  of  large  experience,  pretended  he  could 
never  understand  it.  A  woman  may  possibly  be  excused 
for  not  loving,  because  she,  like  Hannah  Partridge,  never 
had  the  chance.  But  a  man,  that  is  like  an  egg,  so  full 
of  himself  that  he  has  no  room  for  any  one  else,  is  en- 
titled to  the  full  benefit  of  my  opinion.  An  old  bachelor 


256  THE    WILD   ARTIST  IN   BOSTON. 

always  reminds  me  of  a  mule,  whom  Sunset  Cox  has  so 
happily  described  as  "  an  animal  without  pride  of  ances- 
try, or  hope  of  posterity."  The  nun  and  the  artist  were 
not  that  kind  of  people.  They  were  willing  to  follow 
the  example  of  the  old  gardener  and  his  wife,  whom  we 
are  all  obliged  to  acknowledge  as  our  ancestors. 

The  week  went  by  on  leaden  wings,  but  at  last  it  went, 
and  Thursday  came.  The  artist  was  ready  to  work  upon 
the  picture.  There  was  a  glass  window  on  the  back  side 
of  the  room.  It  was  transom-like,  high  up,  and  always 
closed.  He  spread  out  his  colors  and  worked  upon  the 
picture.  Visitors  came  and  the  lady  superior  was 
away  with  them.  After  a  little  time,  the  door  softly 
opened,  and  his  nun  came  in,  softly  closing  the  door 
after  her.  In  an  instant  she  was  in  his  arms,  and  was 
getting  such  a  kiss  as  —  but  there  was  a  knock  on  the 
glass  window,  in  the  back  part  of  the  room.  She  turned 
pale,  and  almost  fell  to  the  floor,  as  the  door  opened,  and 
the  lady  superior,  with  a  scowl  upon  her  face,  took  her 
by  the  arm,  and  led  her  from  the  room. 

The  superior  soon  returned,  with  pen,  ink,  and  paper, 
saying,  you  need  not  touch  the  picture  again.  Make  out 
your  bill  and  receipt  it.  He  did  so  without  a  word. 
She  paid  the  money,  opened  the  door  for  him,  and  in  a 
moment  it  was  locked  behind  him.  He  consulted  a  law- 
yer. The  lawyer  could  see  no  daylight.  He  went  to  a 
sheriff,  but  he  had  no  authority  to  enter  the  abode  of 
peaceful  people.  He  went  to  the  governor  and  stated 
the  case.  The  governor  wished  him  well,  but  could  see 
no  chance  whatever  to  help  him.  The  artist  had  money 
but  had  no  claim  on  any  one  to  demand  help.  He  did 
not  even  know  the  nun's  name.  What  became  of  the 


HAIL  TO   THE   CHIEF.  257 

woman  he  did  not  know.  I  could  not  comfort  him,  and 
I  do  not  extenuate  the  crime  of  those  who  forbid  mar- 
riage, in  the  face  of  the  New  Testament,  which  approves  it. 

I  have  told  you  the  story  just  as  the  artist  told  it  to 
me.  I  believe  it  fully.  I  think  a  bad  promise  is  better 
broken  than  kept.  I  think  that  the  son  who  said  he 
would  go  to  work  in  his  father's  vineyard,  and  went  not, 
was  a  bad  lot ;  I  think  the  second  one,  who  repented  and 
went,  did  better.  I  think  that  Catherine  Von  Bora,  who 
broke  her  vows  as  a  nun,  to  marry  Martin  Luther,  did 
right.  The  wrong  was  in  the  foolTsh,  wicked  vow  of 
celibacy.  It  is  as  wicked  and  hurtful  as  to  stick  one  arm 
up  straight  until  it  hardens  there,  as  the  fools  do  in  India. 

Thus  far  I  have  told  three  stories.  Now  let  us  have  a 
more  playful  one.  It  is  a  story  of 

Apollo  in  Boston. 

There  is  —  now,  to-day  —  in  Boston,  a  young  artist, 
quite  a  talented  one,  who  is,  like  many  others  of  his  class, 
a  daisy.  Six  feet  high,  fine  form,  handsome  hands,  clear 
complexion,  dark  hair,  a  moustache  that  is  Cupid's  bow  in 
shape,  red  lips,  splendid  dark  eyes,  an  Apollo  in  his  own 
right,  and  strongly  threatened  with  beauty  all  over.  If  he 
was  the  Marquis  of  Westminster's  son,  what  a  swath  he 
would  cut.  If  anything  can  surpass  the  way  he  plays  the 
piano  it  is  the  way  he  plays  the  banjo.  And  he  might  be 
a  lady-killer  just  as  easy  as  rolling  off  a  log.  But  he  is 
not,  and,  on  the  contrary,  he  is  the  pink  of  propriety, 
and  as  safe  as  your  grandmother.  If  I  was  the  most 
modest,  blushing  young  lady  in  the  world  I  would  not 
hesitate  to  be  alone  with  him,  he  is  so  safe.  I  would  risk 
the  casualties.  He  has  such  an  air,  and  a  twist  about 


258  THE   WILD  ARTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

him,  and  he  can  entertain  friends,  particularly  ladies, 
just  elegantly.  O  I  tell  you  he  is  one  of  the  gayest, 
airiest,  of  all  the  mortal  gods  that  inspire  our  modern 
Olympus.  Of  course  I  mean  Boston.  Any  one  ought  to 
know  that.  So  I  call  on  him,  make  him  come  and  sup 
with  me,  make  him  talk,  and  put  him  through  his  paces, 
as  Artemus  his  "amoosin'  kangaroo."  Somebody  says, 
Every  rich  family  in  New  York  keeps  a  tame  clergyman. 
I  have  a  number  of  tame  artists,  and  most  refreshing 
people  they  are.  Well,  one  morning  this  Apollo,  junior, 
which  is  not  far  from  his  real  name  anyway,  had  arisen 
from  his  beautiful  couch,  —  no  levity,  please,  it  is  actual 
fact,  — he  had  taken  his  bath,  had  dressed  himself,  as  he 
always  did,  to  look  as  if  he  had  just  come  out  of  the 
upper  drawer.  Here  I  must  digress  again,  and  say,  that 
Boston  has  a  large  percentage  of  this  class,  who  are  in 
striking  contrast  to  some  people  who  always  look  as  if 
they  had  slept  in  the  ash  barrel.  Apollo,  junior,  came 
sweetly  down  to  breakfast.  Sweet  is  no  name  for  it. 
Everything  about  him  was  as  sweet  as  a  wrinkle  in  a  fat 
baby's  neck.  Breakfast,  I  said.  Now  if  any  part  of 
your  life  has  been  unfortunate,  I  beg  you  not  to  associate 
any  coarse  "  grub  "  with  this  breakfast.  No  fried  liver 
smothered  in  onions  about  this.  Not  much.  Apollo 
junior  would  not  touch  it.  No.  He  took  some  very 
nice,  delicious  biscuits,  such  as  are  evolved  by  the  Boston 
cooking  schools,  a  little  delicate  meat,  one  or  two  bulbs 
of  the  Solanum  tuberosum,  and  a  cup  or  two  of  male- 
berry  coffee,  such  as  Cleopatra  refreshed  Marc  Antony 
with.  Apollo  junior  would  no  more  have  touched  female 
berry  coffee  than  he  would  have  put  Prussian  blue  in  a 
picture.  He  believed  in  the  eternal  fitness  of  things,  and 
so  do  I. 


HAIL  TO   THE  CHIEF.  259 

4 

So  he  had  his  breakfast,  and  was  walking  down  Tre- 
mont  Street,  in  that  state  of  body  and  mind  that  the 
truly  elegant  Boston  man  loves  to  be.  The  smile  upon 
his  face  was  like  the  sunshine  upon  the  sweet  waters  of 
the  Batrachian  Lake  upon  the  Common.  It  was  a  cool 
morning.  A  tramp  met  him.  The  tramp  was  poor, 
ragged,  dirty,  pitiful,  cold,  shivering,  and  hungry.  He 
was  the  antipodes  of  Apollo  junior,  in  all  things.  He 
was  very,  very  cold,  you  see.  He  had  slept,  or  tried  to, 
in  a  cattle  car,  with  a  slat  bottom.  Apollo  was  moved  to 
pity,  like  old  Grimes,  and  the  tramp  was  moved  to  beg. 
O  give  me  ten  cents  to  buy  something  to  eat,  I  am 
dreadful  cold  and  hungry.  Said  Apollo :  My  friend,  I 
will  give  you  some  money  upon  one  condition }  if  you 
will  solemnly  promise  me  that  you  will  give  ten  cents  for 
a  good  stiff  drink  of  whiskey,  I  will  give  you  twenty 
five  cents.  If  ever  I  saw  a  man  that  needed  warming 
you  do.  Will  you  promise?  Ye-e-e-s,  I  will,  truly,  said 
the  tramp,  shivering.  He  got  the  money,  and  took  a 
bee-line  for  a  saloon.  The  recording  angel  stood  and 
chewed  his  pen  for  some  time  before  he  knew  which  side 
of  the  book  to  enter  it.  Finally  he  laughed.  I'll  do  it, 
says  he;  and  he  wrote  Apollo  junior,  credit,  by  cash  paid 
the  kingdom  of  heaven,  twenty-five  cents.  A  gift  of  pity 
and  love.  He  called  the  wretch  "  my  friend."  If  some 
folks  I  know  of  had  known  it,  they  would  have  been 
madder  than  wet  hens.  My  stories  are  done.  • 

Roy  Bartlett  announced,  that  it  was  hoped  there  would 
be  a  visit  of  a  spirit  of  might  and  power,  that  they  might 
see,  once  in  their  lives,  one  whom  we  all  delight  to 
honor. 


260  THE  WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

* 
There  was  a  dark  curtain  across  the  rear  end  of  the 

parlors. 

Said  Roy,  "  It  is  usual,  when  we  wish  to  get  an  audi- 
ence into  harmony  and  sympathy,  to  sing.  This  brings 
us  to  be  all  of  one  mind,  and  is  supposed  to  make  it  easy 
for  the  spirit  to  appear.  Now  please  sing  that  grand 
piece,  Keller's  American  Hymn.  All  please  join  who 
have  the  gift  of  song.  Miss  Sarah  Warren,  please  take 
the  piano." 

It  was  done.  Of  all  noble  songs,  I  like  that  hymn,  and 
then  they  sung  it  with  the  spirit  and  the  understanding 
also.  The  windows  were  open,  and  when  it  was  done, 
they  heard  the  applause  from  a  large  company  outside. 
It  was  just  fun  for  Mrs.  Warren  and  her  daughters.  The 
applause  came  floating  in  like  a  sixth  sense,  or  as  the 
smell  of  gunpowder  did,  when  the  great  peace  jubilee  in 
Boston  sang  the  national  hymns,  with  anvil  and  cannon 
accompaniment.  Oh,  that  mighty  tide  of  song.  God 
bless  P.  S.  Gil  more  for  that. 

Then  Roy  said,  "  Now  Miss  Emily  Warren  will  read  a 
poem  by  John  Pierpont,  and  sung  once,  On  the  twenty- 
second  of  February,  in  the  Old  South  Church.  It  is 
Pierpont's  '  Washington.' "  In  perfect  stillness,  with 
the  lights  turning  a  little  lower,  she  read  the  poem  be- 
ginning, 

"  To  Thee,  beneath  whose  eye 
Each  circling  century 
Obedient  rolls." 

When  she  came  to  the  stanza, 

"  There  like  an  angel  form, 

Sent  down  to  still  the  storm, 

Stood  Washington. 


HAIL  TO  THE   CHIEF.  261 

Clouds  broke  and  rolled  away, 
Foes  fled  in  pale  dismay, 
Wreathed  were  his  brows  with  bay, 
When  war  was  done," 

then,  the  piano  being  muffled,  by  laying  a  large,  lady's 
cloud,  or  hood,  upon  the  strings  (a  trick  which  if  done 
rightly  is  a  revelation),  and  a  snare  drum,  also  muffled, 
and  deftly  played  by  Miss  Sarah  Warren,  and  the  instru- 
ments were  ready.  The  lights  were  very  low. 

Said  Roy,  "  The  Continental  army  is  coming.  Wash- 
ington has  taken  command  at  Cambridge." 

Yes,  he  is  coming.  There  was  a  rustle  of  feet  and  afar 
off  was  heard  the  piano  and  drum  and  the  tramp  of  the 
time-keeping  soldiers  coming  nearer,  nearer,  nearer.  It 
was  a  fine  illusion.  It  came  near.  Halt  was  ordered, 
and  the  music  ceased.  The  front  door  opened  and  rus- 
tling and  tramping  seemed  as  if  important  visitors  had 
come.  Earnest  words  were  spoken.  Has  he  come  ? 
Yes,  it  is  he.  He  has  come.  They  are  here.  Oh,  it  is 
a  sight  for  a  lifetime.  Shall  we  see  him  ?  Perhaps,  I 
hope  so.  The  room  was  perfectly  dark  and  still.  Then  a 
strong,  solemn  voice  recited  this  adjuration, 

"  Hail,  chieftain  from  the  home  above, 
Come  from  the  land  of  light  and  love ; 
Come  to  us  from  thine  own  blest  place, 
Let  us  once  more  behold  thy  face, 
Thou,  who  didst  lead  our  armies  on 
Till  liberty  and  peace  were  won. 
Chosen  of  God  and  heaven-sent, 
Our  leader,  patriot,  president. 
Once  more  receive  the  homage  due 
A  mighty  nation  pays  to  you. 


262  THE  WILD  ARTIST  IN   BOSTON. 

Receive  the  praise  so  gladly  given, 
Welcome  to  God,  and  saints  in  heaven. 
Come  thou  from  home  that  saints  inherit, 
Come  bless  our  sight,  inspiring  spirit, 
We  love  thee,  wait  to  meet  thee  here, 
Great  Washington,  appear  !  appear !  " 

The  piano  struck  softly  a  few  bars  of  "  My  country,  'tis 
of  thee."  The  drum  rolled  and  the  centre  of  the  curtain 
was  shot  with  light.  The  light  at  first  was  white.  In  a 
minute  it  was.  changed  to  blue,  in  another  it  was  roseate. 
Then  the  curtain  parted  in  the  middle  and  showed  two 
large,  rich,  silk,  American  flags,  parted,  and  in  a  beauti- 
ful alcove  sat  General  Washington  himself.  The  parlors 
were  dark,  the  alcove  was  light.  It  was  a  sight  for 
a  lifetime.  The  illusion  was  so  good  they  did  not 
think  to  criticise.  Whispers  were  heard.  One  woman 
really  asked  :  Is  it  Washington  ?  What  is  it  ?  Is  he 
alive  ?  No,  it  is  wax.  No,  it  is  not.  I  saw  him  wink. 
And  so,  hungry  eves  looked  at  that  tableau.  Whoever  it 
was,  played  his  part  well,  and  looked  our  idea  of  Wash- 
ington to  perfection,  like  Gilbert  Stuart's  picture.  He 
sat  still.  O  what  dignity  ami  conscious  power.  The 
arch  of  evergreen,  above  all,  the  flags,  the  alcove  lighted 
from  invisible  lamps.  The  drapery  and  lace  curtain  in 
the  rear,  the  exquisite  hothouse  flowers.  O,  these 
ladies  and  artists  had  not  studied  art  for  nothing,  and 
they  did  not  lack  for  a  dollar,  if  they  needed  it.  Mrs. 
Warren  blossomed.  She  was  a  girl  again. 

Said  Roy,  "Now  we  will  have,  'Hail  to  the  chief.' 
After  which  this  illusion  will  change,  and  pass  away,  for- 
ever. If  this  is  not  Washington  himself,  you  will  never 
get  a  better  likeness  until  you  see  him.  Look  at  the  fine 


HAIL   TO  THE  CHIEF.  263 

ruddy  color  which  Gilbert  Stuart  has  twiddled  into  the 
cheeks  of  his  portrait,  and  the  hair  and  expression  I  have 
often  admired  in  this  gentleman.  And  they  are  more 
like  Washington  than  any  one  I  ever  met." 

Then,  with  bull's-eye  lamps  enough  to  see  the  score, 
with  Miss  Graham  at  the  piano  and  Miss  Sarah  Warren 
with  little  taps  and  rolls  of  the  drum,  they  sang  that 
glorious  song  of  The  Wizard  of  the  North,  — 

"  Plail  to  the  chief  who  in  triumph  advances, 
Honored  and  blest  be  the  evergreen  pine, 

Long  may  the  tree  in  his  banner  that  glances, 
Flourish,  the  shelter  and  grace  of  our  line." 

O  it  is  so  good  I  can  hardly  refrain  from  putting  it  all 
in.  And  those  magnificent  sopranos,  with  an  abundant 
support  of  choir  singers  and  instruments,  made  such  a 
triumphant  song,  as  I  never  heard  surpassed.  They  sang 
the  whole  four  stanzas,  repeating  only  the  last  line  of  each. 
Then  the  gas  was  turned  on  and  the  gentleman  arose. 

Roy  spoke,  "  Friends,  the  vision  has  passed.  I  now 
have  the  pleasure  of  introducing  to  you  a  gentleman  who 
looks  like  Washington,  and  is  like  him  in  noble  and 
kindly  character.  He  has  been  long  and  well  known  in 
Cambridge,  both  in  business  and  the  city  government. 
He  is  the  founder  of  the  New  Hampshire  Club  of  Cam- 
bridge, and  its  first  president.  He  is  as  popular  and  as 
worthy  in  his  sphere,  as  Washington  was  in  his.  At  any 
rate,  a  great  many  people  love  him,  and  so  do  I,  and  I 
gladly  present  to  you  Mr.  Francis  L.  Chapman  of  Cam- 
bridge." 

To  say  he  had  a  greeting,  is  useless.  He  was  known  to 
several,  and  he  had  as  much  welcome,  for  his  own  sake, 


264  THE  WILD  ARTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

as  for  the  great  commander.  Many  were  presented  by 
name,  and  would  persist  in  calling  him  General  Wash- 
ington. 

It  is  a  matter  of  history,  how  clean  the  streets  of  Jeru- 
salem were  once,  when  every  man  did  his  best  to  keep  it 
clean  before  his  own  house.  It  is  a  matter  of  astonish- 
ment, how  much  enthusiasm  there  is  in  a  society,  where 
they  all  let  themselves  out  to  help  all  they  can,  and  to  en- 
joy it,  whether  or  no.  Churches,  make  a  note  of  this ; 
this  the  Art  Coterie  did.  They  did  their  best  to  make  it 
good.  They  all  owned  it,  and  owed  it  allegiance.  They 
smacked  their  lips,  and  made  it  taste  good  without  criti- 
cism. If  they  had  gone  to  a  theatre  or  church  festival, 
and  paid  a  long  price  for  admission,  I  am  afraid  their 
noses  would  have  gone  up  into  the  air,  like  so  many  art 
critics'. 

Roy  said,  "  It  is  getting  late.  Let  us  sing  '  Auld  Lang 
Syne.'  " 

A  gentleman  jumped  up  and  said,  "I  was  at  a  late 
meeting  of  the  New  Hampshire  Club  in  Cambridge,  and 
the  company  would  not  let  Mr.  Chapman  off,  until  he 
sang  an  old  song,  that  used  to  give  the  firemen  a  chance 
to  come  in  on  the  chorus.  Mr.  Chapman  is  a  member  of 
the  old  fire  department,  before  the  days  of  steam  fire  en- 
gines, and  there  is  so  much  love  and  good-will  among  the 
ex-members,  that  they  make  him  sing  the  old  song  as 
they  used  to,  and  all  the  boys  come  in  on  a  roaring  cho- 
rus. I  move  that  we  request  Mr.  Chapman  to  sing 
'  Lowlands  Low.' " 

Roy  put  it  to  vote,  and  the  answer  was  a  unanimous 
«  Aye."  They  all  laughed. 

Mr.  Chapman  said  he  had  sometimes  been  elected  to 


HAIL  TO  THE  CHIEF.  265 

office,  "but  never  went  in  by  a  handsomer  majority.  He 
was  no  musician,  and  did  not  claim  to  sing ;  but  the  boys 
wanted  a  jolly  chorus,  and  the  old  sea-song  helped  them 
to  sing  the  chorus.  The  New  Hampshire  Club  had 
ordered  it,  and  he  would  give  it  to  the  Art  Coterie  if  they 
would  only  come  in  strong  on  the  chorus.  The  song  is 
as  old  as  the  ocean,  more  or  less,  and  here  it  is  : 

THE  LOWLANDS. 

% 
"  OI  have  a  ship  in  the  North  countree, 

And  she  goes  by  the  name  of  the  Bold  Galatee ; 
But  I  fear  she  will  be  taken  by  some  Turkish  gallee, 
As  she  sails  along  the  lowlands. 
CHORUS  —  Lowlands  low, 

As  she  sails  along  the  lowlands  low. 

"  Then  up  steps  the  boy,  and  to  his  master  said, 
"What  will  you  give  to  me  if  I'll  go  and  destroy  ? 
O  I  will  give  you  gold,  and  I  will  give  you  store, 
And  you  shall  have  my  daughter  dear,  when  you  return  on 

shore,  — 

If  you'll  sink  her  in  the  lowlands. 
CIIOKUS  —  Lowlands  low, 

If  you'll  sink  her  in  the  lowlands  low. 

"  Then  this  boy  he  bent  his  best  and  away  swam  he ; 
Swam  till  he  came  to  the  Turkish  gallee. 
This  boy  he  bent  his  best  and  away  swam  he ; 
Swam  till  he  came  to  the  Turkish  gallee, 
As  she  sailed  along  the  lowlands. 
CHORUS  —  Lowlands  low, 

As  she  sailed  along  the  lowlands  low. 

"  Now  this  boy  he  had  an  auger  that  bored  two  holes  at  once, 
Now  this  boy  he  had  an  auger  that  bored  two  holes  at  once ; 
While  some  were  playing  cards  and  some  were  playing  dice, 


266  THE   WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

He  let  the  water  in  and  dazzled  all  their  eyes  ; 
And  he  sank  them  in  the  lowlands. 
CHORUS  —  Lowlands  low, 

And  he  sank  them  in  the  lowlands  low. 

"  Then  this  boy  he  bent  his  best  and  away,  away  swam  he; 
Swam  till  he  came  to  his  own  ship's  side, 
Dear  master,  pick  me  up,  for  I'm  drifting  with  the  tide, 
And  I'm  sinking  in  the  lowlands. 
CHORUS  —  Lowlands  low, 

And  I'm  sinking  in  the  lowlands  low. 

"  I  will  not  pick  you  up,  his  master  he  replied, 
I  will  kill  you,  I  will  shoot  you,  I  will  send  you  down  the  tide, 
And  I'll  sink  you  in  the  lowlands. 
CHOUUS  —  Lowlands  low, 

And  I'll  sink  you  in  the  lowlands  low. 

"  Then  this  boy  swam  around  all  on  the  larboard  side, 
Then  this  boy  swam  around  all  on  the  larboard  side ; 
Dear  shipmates,  pick  me  up,  for  I'm  drifting  with  the  tide, 
For  I'm  sinking  in  the  lowlands. 
CHORUS  —  Lowlands  low, 

For  I'm  sinking  in  the  lowlands  low. 

"  Then  the  shipmates  picked  him  up  all  on  the  larboard  side ; 
They  laid  him  on  the  deck,  where  he  soon  revived ; 
And  then  they  called  the  captain  unto  the  larboard  side, 
And  they  chucked  him  overboard,  with  a  fair  wind  and  tide, 
And  they  sank  him  in  the  lowlands. 
CHORUS  —  Lowlands  low, 

And  they  sank  him  in  the  lowlands  low. 

"Now  this  boy  he  won  gold  and  silver  bright, 
Now  this  boy  he  won  gold  and  silver  bright, 
Now  this  boy  he  won  gold  and  silver  bright, 
Likewise  his  master's  daughter,  to  be  his  heart's  delight, 
As  he  sailed  along  the  lowlands. 
CHORUS  —  Lowlands  low, 

As  he  sailed  along;  the  lowlands  low. 


HAIL   TO   THE  CHIEF.  267 

"  Come  weigh  up  your  anchor  all  to  the  bow, 
Through  this  wide  ocean  we  have  to  plough, 
Through  this  wide  ocean  we  have  to  plough, 
Till  we  get  her  off  the  lowlands. 
CHORUS  —  Lowlands  low, 

Till  we  get  her  off  the  lowlands  low." 

To  say  the  Art  Coterie  sang,  was  no  name  for  it. 
Those  splendid  sopranos  outdid  themselves.  When  the 
chorus  struck  the  "  Lowlands  low,"  it  was  immense. 

The  basses  sung  in  a  voice  like  a  fog-horn.  Nobody 
said  it  was  or  was  not  classical  music,  but  some  of  them 
said  Beacon  Hill  never  heard  the  like,  or  anything  they 
relished  so  well.  Ask  any  one  of  the  company  to-day, 
and  they  will  laugh.  The  crowd  outside  joined  in,  and 
it  is  even  said  that  away  down  the  harbor,  the  scnlpins 
came  to  the  surface  to  listen,  and  even  the  sea-serpent 
put  in  an  appearance,  off  Apple  Island.  This  I  cannot 
vouch  for,  as  I  wish  to  be  entirely  circumstantial  and 
avoid  even  the  appearance  of  exaggeration.  But  I  do 
know  Mr.  Frank  Chapman  sang  the  old  sea-song,  and  we 
enjoyed  it  hugely,  even  though  it  is  flavored  with 
tragedy,  even  as  the  rhyme  of  the  Nancy  Bell.  How- 
ever, none  laid  it  to  heart,  and  we  all  went  home  happy, 
even  as  happy  as  a  pair  of  twins. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

ROY   DINES    OUT. 

THE  next  day  Roy  was  at  the  studio,  bright  and  early. 
Miss  Graham  was  there  not  long  after.  There  was 
plenty  of  fun  among  those  who  sang  at  the  Coterie. 
Everybody  was  as  pleasant  as  a  basket  of  chips.  A  New 
Hampshire  proverb.  Miss  Graham  brought  Roy  a  note. 
It  read :  — 

MR.  ROYAL  BARTLETT,  Dear  Sir, — You  are  kindly  invited 
to  dine  with  us  this  evening  at  six  o'clock.  Truly  yours,  — 

WILSON  GRAHAM. 

It  was  from  Miss  Graham's  uncle.  Mr.  and  Mrs  Gra- 
ham had  often  been  in  the  studio,  where  they  had  met 
Mrs.  Warren  and  her  daughters.  They  were  all  agree- 
able people,  and  had  been  often  in  the  studio  and  at  the 
Coterie. 

Roy  said :  "Miss  Graham,  I  am  glad  to  receive  your 
uncle's  kind  invitation,  which  I  shall  have  to  answer." 

"  You  are  welcome,  sir,"  said  she,  "  and  you  need  not 
send  an  answer,  but  just  go  across 'the  Common  with  me, 
when  we  are  through  work.  I  told  my  uncle,  I  thought 
you  would  come,  and  they  will  take  it  for  granted." 

"  Ah,"  said  Roy,  "  your  uncle  has  good  fortune.  It  is 
real  luck  for  a  disabled  clergyman,  to  have  an  estate  all 
furnished,  to  care  for,  with  an  income  and  a  good  living." 

268 


KOY  DINES   OFT.  269 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  am  glad  uncle  is  so  well  provided 
for.  But  the  estate  he  cares  for,  constantly  increases 
under  his  management,  so  he  really  earns  a  great  deal 
more  than  he  costs  the  estate,  by  his  judicious  invest- 
ments. He  has  taken  the  earnings  and  bought  land  in 
New  York,  that  he  has  built  business  blocks  upon,  so 
that  the  owner  can  see  the  estate  grow  largely  every 
year.  He  has  never  lost  the  estate  a  dollar,  and  he  has 
gained  it  many  thousands." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  said  Roy  :  "  honesty  and  stability  of  char- 
acter are  a  double  blessing.  They  help  everybody.  I 
am  thankful  that,  since  his  voice  became  weak,  he  has 
such  a  chance  to  show  the  sterling  gold  of  his  character. 
A  faithful  Christian  minister  deserves  that  the  world  shall 
use  him  well.  Some  people  never  see  any  one  situated 
as  he  is,  without  feeling  envious,  and  wishing  all  the 
blessing  was  theirs ;  but  I  never  feel  that  way.  I  never 
expect  more  than  a  competence,  and  I  am  fully  prepared 
to  be  happy  and  thankful  with  that.  I  have  a  good  time 
all  the  time,  now,  and  I  hope  he  will  long  enjoy  the  trust 
that  is  laid  upon  him.  Of  course,  that  means  you  too, 
Miss  Graham." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  she  answered. 

There  came'  a  knock  at  the  door.  Roy  admitted  the 
visitors.  It  was  the  man  who  had  called  Roy  a  bad 
name.  His  wife  came  too.  They  had  their  pictures 
hung  up  and  liked  them  ever  so  much.  He  was  one  of 
those  men  who  when  they  have  done  a  wrong,  and  have 
seen  it,  can  never  do  too  much  to  repair  it.  So  he  told 
Roy  that  he  had  an  offer  for  his  house,  of  far  more  than 
it  cost  him,  with  all  the  furniture,  and  also  the  pictures. 
He  said  he  was  on  his  way  down  town  to  close  the  bar- 


270  THE  WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

gain  and  should  want  some  more  pictures.  Would  Mr. 
Bartlett  take  a  commission  for  some  more  ? 

"  Certainly." 

"  Then  as  soon  as  the  trade  was  made  sure,  he  would 
call  and  give  his  order.  He  thought  it  was  all  right  now 
as  a  thousand  dollars  had  been  paid,  and  the  papers 
drawn;  but  if  Mr.  Bartlett  would  allow  his  wife  to  re- 
main there,  he  would  slip  into  Mr.  Lyman's  office  and 
complete  the  trade." 

He  did.  He  was  gone  about  half  an  hour,  and  came 
back  with  the  whole  amount  deposited  in  the  bank. 

"It  was  sure,  surer  than  certain,"  he  said,  and,  he 
added,  "  as  I  do  not  own  a  house,  or  pictures  in  it,  and 
also,  as  the  pictures  helped  very  much  to  sell  the  house, 
here  is  a  check  for  five  hundred  dollars.  Mr.  Bartlett, 
you  please  take  that  check,  and  paint  me  what  pictures 
you  can  afford  to  for  it.  If  you  can  give  me  one  thirty 
by  fifty  and  others  smaller,  say  four  or  five  in  all,  all 
right.  And  do  what  you  can  afford  to,  without  the 
frames.  As  fast  as  you  get  them  done  send  them  where 
the  last  were  framed  and  let  me  know.  And  here  is  a 
check  for  one  hundred ;  will  Miss  Graham  paint  me  a  pair 
of  upright  waterfalls  for  that  ?  " 

She  would. 

"  Miss  Graham,  please  choose  some  of  the  pretty  water- 
falls in  the  White  Mountains." 

It  was  so  ordered,  and  the  pay  was  sure ;  indeed,  they 
had  it  already.  Roy  said  he  would  do  his  best  to  please 
such  a  customer,  and  do  it  at  once.  "  He  never  neg- 
lected a  friend,"  he  said,  "  and  always  tried  faithfully  to 
do  as  he  would  be  done  by.  Would  he  and  his  wife  look  in, 
in  a  week,  and  see  how  the  pictures  were  coming  along  ?  " 


ROY  DINES   OUT.  271 

They  would. 

"  And  would  they  be  at  the  next  Art  Coterie  ?  Some- 
thing nice  was  brewing.  They  would  be  notified." 

The  call  was  over,  and  these  people  had  done  a  very 
graceful  thing.  They  had  proved,  out  and  out,  that  they 
did  not  think  Roy  was  a  scoundrel,  for  the  man  had 
trusted  him  with  five  hundred  dollars,  with  permission  to 
pay  it  in  such  quantity  and  quality  as  he  pleased.  Truly 
Roy  had  not  seen  such  faith,  even  in  Israel.  But  he  had 
found  it  in  Boston.  He  went  along,  and  sat  down  beside 
Miss  Graham.  They  smiled  at  each  other. 

Said  he,  "  Surely,  goodness  and  mercy  shall  follow 
me  all  the  days  of  my  life,  and  I  will  dwell  in  the  house 
of  the  Lord  forever." 

He  said  it  solemnly  and  reverently,  and  he  was  thor- 
oughly glad  Miss  Graham  had  a  check  for  a  hundred,  and 
he  wished  it  was  for  five  instead.  She  deserved  it.  He 
was  glad  Miss  Graham  had  some  luck  come  to  her  through 
being  in  the  studio  with  him,  and  he  hoped  more  would 
come,  for  she  had  helped  him ;  and  if  it  had  not  been  for 
her,  his  auction  sale  would  have  been  a  calamity  indeed. 
Roy  said  he  intended  to  keep  that  five  hundred  whole,  so 
as  to  pay  it  on  the  mortgage  of  his  real  estate. 

It  would  not  be  long  before  that  would  be  clear. 

Roy  said  he  hoped  Miss  Graham  would  begin  a  savings- 
bank  account,  if  she  had  not  already  done  so.  She 
thanked  him,  and  said  she  had  money  laid  away,  so  if  she 
wanted  a  hundred  dollars  she  could  get  it.  She  laughed. 
She  said  she  was  quite  a  capitalist,  in  her  way.  She  did 
not  waste  any  money. 

They  had  a  rush  of  pupils  that  day.  Young  men  had 
lessons  by  themselves;  but  the  busy  day  was  when  every 


272  THE   WILD  ARTIST  IN   BOSTON. 

mother's  son  of  them  were  women.  I  hope  I  have  not 
dropped  a  word  wrong.  It  is  written  that  Moses  was  a 
proper  child.  I  never  was.  I  always  relish  some  comical 
irregularity.  Henry  Clay  buttered  his  watermelon. 
Sydney  Smith  was  once  drinking  water,  and  he  said,  "  O, 
that  this  were  a  sin,  just  to  give  it  a  relish."  The  water 
was  lost,  but  the  bright  saying  has  tickled  the  fancy  of 
millions,  even  until  now.  There  came  a  knock.  It  was 
the  postman.  Here  is  the  note. 

MR.  BARTLETT,  Dear  Sir,  —  I  have  sold  the  pair  of  pictures 
I  bought  of  you.  If  you  have  on  hand,  or  will  paint  another, 
same  size,  same  price,  or  about  that,  of  a  pleasant  subject,  I 
will  take  them.  Truly  yours, 

B.  S.  MOULTON. 

He  passed  the  note  for  Miss  Graham  to  read,  and 
added,  "  You  furnish  one  of  them,  and  have  half  the  pay." 
She  thanked  him. 

It  was  a  cheerful  day.  Fred  Annerly,  Miss  Graham's 
servant,  called  at  the  door.  Eoy  sent  word  back  by  him 
that  the  invitation  to  dinner  was  accepted.  Miss  Graham 
said  he  need  not  write  It,  as  they  did  not  make  ceremony 
with  him.  In  the  afternoon  he  went  to  Mrs.  Warren's 
to  tell  her  he  should  not  be  at  home  to  supper.  He  was 
going  to  dine  out.  Yes,  I  know  there  is  a  discrepancy, 
but  I  like  it.  Then  Roy  went  through  those  toilet  mys- 
teries which  are  past  all  understanding,  and  came  down  to 
Mrs.  Warren  for  inspection.  He  passed  muster  elegantly. 
On  his  way  back  to  the  studio  he  mounted  a  buttonhole 
bouquet,  —  moss  rosebud  and  sweet-scented  geranium  leaf, 
—  and  then,  I  do  declare,  he  looked  good  enough  to  eat. 
Miss  Graham  cast  him  a  look  that  gave  him  quite  a  turn. 


ROY  DINES   OUT.  273 

There  are  a  few  men,  and  more  women,  who  remind  rne 
of  the  little  child's  prayer :  "  O  Lord,  bless  me,  and  give 
me  a  new  heart.  Lord  bless  brothers  and  sisters,  and 
give  them  a  new  heart.  Lord  bless  papa,  and  give  him  a 
new  heart.  And  Lord  bless  mamma,  and  you  needn't 
give  her  any  new  heart ;  she's  all  right  now." 

They  took  their  way  across  the  Common,  over  the 
bridge  in  the  Public  Garden,  that  the  critics  suffered  such 
agony  about,  but,  alas !  it  did  not  kill  them,  then  past 
the  mighty  bronze  equestrian  statue  of  Washington,  and 
to  the  home  of  Wilson  Graham.  Fred  Annerly  admitted 
them.  It  was  a  splendid  house.  The  centre  of  it  was 
the  large  and  elegantly  furnished  reception  room  they 
were  in.  Looking  out  of  it,  in  front  was  the  parlor. 
Here  were  pictures  worth  looking  at,  in  all  the  rooms. 
Among  the  artists  represented  were  Claude,  Gains- 
borough, Sir  Thomas  Lawrence,  Verboeckhoven,  Meisso- 
nier,  Turner,  Bierstadt,  Heade,  Kensett,  Bricher,  B. 
Champney,  S.  L.  Gerry,  Brackett,  Hunt,  Church,  T.  Mo- 
ran,  Virgil  Williams ;  and  Roy  was  surprised,  as  well  as 
pleased,  to  find  two  out  of  his  own  sale,  that  Miss  Gra- 
ham had  bought.  They  were  hung  in  a  good  light. 

Mr.  Graham  and  his  wife  had  taken  Roy  in  hand  as 
soon  as  he  came  in,  which  gave  Miss  Graham  a  chance  to 
slip  upstairs,  and  even  up  toilet  matters.  A  woman 
will  not  let  a  man  crow  over  her,  if  she  can  help  it.  It 
was  easy  for  Miss  Graham  to  be  good-looking,  for  she 
always  looked  good  ;  because  she  was  good.  Another 
advantage  she  had,  Jenny  Annerly,  Fred's  wife,  was  a 
fine  dressmaker  ;  and  with  her  help  in  rny  lady's  chamber 
Miss  Graham  soon  came  down,  looking  O  so  sweet  that 
Roy's  gizzard  got  another  twist.  It  served  him  right. 


274  THE  WILD  ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

He  had  not  seen  her  in  full  bloom  before. 

Roy  said,  "Mr.  and  Mrs.  Graham,  and  Miss  Graham,  I 
am  very  greatly  obliged,  to  you  for  hanging  my  pictures 
in  such  good  company.  I  am  afraid  you  have  used  me 
too  well." 

"  I  think  not,"  said  Mr.  Graham.  "  Your  pictures  are 
good  work.  You  have  studied  with  Mr.  Gerry  some,  and 
have  caught  a  little  of  the  charm  in  which  he  idealizes  a 
picture.  If  you  do  not  go  to  Europe  and  learn  the  broad 
crude  way  that  some  paint  there,  you  have  a  fine  future 
before  you,  in  art.  Are  you  doing  as  well  as  you  ought 
to  expect,  Mr.  Bartlett?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  better.  Especially  since  the  sale,  which  was 
bought  experience." 

"I  am  glad  of  it.  Now  let  us  go  to  the  dining-room 
and  see  what  they  have  for  us.  As  our  party  is  small, 
Mrs.  Graham  and  I  will  lead  the  way,  and  the  next  couple 
forms  of  itself."  When  they  were  seated  at  the  table,  it 
was  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Graham  as  opposites  and  Roy  and  Miss 
Graham  also.  Mr.  Graham  gave  thanks. 

Roy  said,  "  Ah,  you  arrange  as  Mrs.  Warren  does.  She 
has  a  quartette,  only  in  that  case  three  are  ladies." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Graham.  "  Our  family  is  small,  only 
three  of  us.  Although  we  often  have  company.  Mr. 
Graham  often  meets  some  of  his  clerical  friends,  or  college 
chums,  and  then  we  are  social.  But  no  one  ever  need 
be  lonesome  in  Boston.  It  is  so  compact  together,  and 
is  in  such  endless  variety,  that  all  can  be  amused,  in- 
structed, or  interested.  It  was  one  of  the  glories  of  Jeru- 
salem, when  in  her  grandeur,  that  she  was  builded  as  a 
city  that  was  compact  together,  but  Jerusalem  in  her 
palmiest  days  never  saw  the  time  when  she  had  a  quarter 


KOY  DINES   OUT.  275 

part  of  the  things  to  interest  one  that  Boston  has  to- 
day." 

"  Well  done,  aunty,"  said  Miss  Graham.  "  That  is  the 
longest  and  best  speech  you  ever  made." 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  she.  "  I  am  a  Boston  girl  and  I 
know  whereof  I  speak." 

The  first  course  had  been  soup. 

"  Do  you  like  turkey,  Mr.  Bartlett  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Gra- 
ham. 

"Indeed  I  do.  I  think  it  ought  to  be  our  national 
bird,  instead  of  the  eagle.  An  eagle  is  a  tyrant  and  vil- 
lain in  his  life  and  useless  in  his  death.  A  turkey  is  a 
harmless  good  citizen  in  his  life  and  a  feast  for  good 
Christians  in  his  death." 

"  Then,"  said  Mr.  Graham,  "  you  will  like  this  one,  for 
it  is  a  large  and  fine  hen  turkey  as  I  ever  saw." 

Said  Roy,  "  I  never  heard  but  one  criticism  on  turkey 
in  my  life." 

"  What  was  that  ?  " 

"  A  man  of  large  appetite  once  said  :  '  A  turkey  is  the 
most  uncomfortable  bird  in  the  world.  It  is  rather  too 
much  for  one,  and  not  enough  for  two.' " 

The  dinner  was  a  social  one.  Each  tried  to  see  how 
much  he  could  do  for  the  others,  and  Fred  and  Jenny 
waited  upon  them,  as  if  they  were  trying  to  do  all  they 
could,  also,  to  supply  their  wants.  And  they  were  spoken 
to  in  such  a  considerate  pleasant  way  that  it  seemed  like 
a  realization  of  what  was  once  spoken,  "  Hereafter  I  call 
you  not  servants,  but  friends." 

Roy  had  seen  it  in  his  own  home  and  he  was  glad  to 
find  it  here.  They  had  an  abundant  dinner,  everything 
at  its  best,  and  took  an  hour  for  it.  Then  they  went  up 


276   .  THE   WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

to  the  reception  room,  aud  up  another  flight  of  massive 
mahogany  stairs,  to  a  very  large  front  room,  the  drawing- 
room.  A  low  bookcase  of  heavy  carved  black  walnut 
was  on  the  whole  length  of  the  west  side  of  the  room, 
while  upon  it  were  bronzes,  reproductions  of  famous 
buildings,  the  Temple  of  the  Sun  at  Baalbec,  the  temple  at 
Jerusalem,  the  Temple  of  the  Sybil  at  Tivoli,  the  Parthe- 
non, the  Napoleon  column,  Michael  Angelo's  Moses,  the 
statue  of  the  Nile,  the  statue  of  Ocean,  the  pilgrim  statue 
of  Faith,  and  I  don't  know  what.  The  cases  were  filled 
with  books  of  the  best,  and  at  their  best.  The  pictures 
were  large  and  splendid.  There  was  nothing  there  that 
said,  I  am  here  for  show,  but  all  said,  here  is  a  good  and 
valuable  thing,  that  you  may  appreciate  and  enjoy.  It 
was  the  richest  and  best  furnished  room  that 'Roy  had 
ever  been  in.  Of  course  Roy  knew  temples  and  palaces, 
without  and  within,  and  he  knew  what  was  in  Europe 
and  Asia,  better  than  half  that  had  been  there.  And  why 
not?  He  was  familiar  with  the  stereoscope,  and  had  a 
thousand  views  of  his  own.  He  had  seen  many  thou- 
sands. He  knew  the  palaces  of  Europe  much  better  than 
many  who  have  been  there.  But  here  were  so  many 
points  of  interest  he  was  charmed  at  once. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "before  we  srt  down  let  us  walk 
around  the  room  and  see  how  many  of  the  models  and 
bronzes  I  can  name." 

Mr.  Graham  was  curious  to  know.  He  went  slowly 
around,  giving  the  right  name  and  history  to  every  one, 
except  one,  which  he  was  not  quite  sure  of.  He  thought 
it  must  be  the  Alexander  column  at  St.  Petersburg,  but 
he  was  not  sure  of  it  as  he  had  never  seen  a  photograph 
of  it.  It  was  a  correct  guess.  Mr.  Graham  was 


ROY   DINES    OUT.  277 

Very  few  can  do  it.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Graham  had  been  in 
Europe,  but  Miss  Graham  had  not. 

"  And  so  you  like  stereoscopics  ?  " 

"  Yes  indeed,  I  do,"  said  Roy. 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,  Mr.  Bartlett.  Sometime  we  will 
have  a  quiet  evening  with  the  stereoscopics.  This  estate 
contains  some  fine  pictures  in  glass  and  paper.  We  will 
have  a  chat  to-night,  but  later  we  will  travel  in  the  ster- 
eoscope, and  enjoy  foreign  parts  without  going  out  of 
Boston." 

Said  Roy,  "  With  good  company,  this  drawing-room  is 
the  perfection  of  comfort.  There  is  beauty  wherever  you 
look,  but  no  fashion  or  style  that  is  trying  to  assert  itself. 
No  angular  Eastlake  style  that  is  trying  to  be  in  fashion. 
Comfort  and  beauty  in  perfection,  and  suggestions  of  that 
which  the  world  has  praised  and  admired  for  ages." 

Said  Mr.  Graham,  "Do  you  enjoy  life,  Mr.  Bartlett?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  do.  I  am  in  perfect  health,  fairly  situated, 
have  no  friend  in  any  sorrow  or  trouble,  and  I  have  noth- 
ing to  worry  me.  I  remember  the  injunction,  '  Rejoice, 
O  young  man,  in  the  days  of  thy  youth,'  and  I  do  not  for- 
get the  remainder  of  the  injunction.  Of  course  I  can 
never  be  situated  as  you  are  here,  but  I  think  I  shall  get 
as  much  blessing  and  cause  for  thankfulness  in  life,  as 
almost  any  one  you  will  see." 

"What  church  do  you  attend,  Mr.  Bartlett?" 

"  The  Orthodox.  I  like  the  old  name.  I  go  to  Park 
St.,  except  that  I  often  go  to  hear  Phillips  Brooks, 
Doctor  Bartol,  and  others,  who  give  me  a  good  quality 
and  variety  of  instruction.  What  was  your  denomi- 
nation, Mr.  Graham,  before  you  gave  up  your  pastorate  ?  " 

Mr.   Graham  smiled,   "O  the  old  Puritan   faith,  the 


278  THE   WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

New  Testament  in  practice.  There  are  some  little 
variations  in  our  evangelical  churches,  but  they  are  near 
enough  alike  to  work  together  and  love  each  other  if 
they  will." 

Said  Roy,  "Just  see  how  nicely  we  four  people  are 
seated.  What  a  nice  picture  it  would  make,  looking 
either  way." 

Miss  Graham  said,  "  Yes,  these  social  home  scenes  are 
always  attractive." 

Mr.  Graham  asked,  "  Have  you  studied  medical  books 
any,  Mr.  Bartlett  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  read  several  hours  each  day,  and  I  often 
choose  a  medical  book.  I  should  be  a  good  nurse,  and 
I  could  play  doctor,  in  the  absence  of  a  better  man." 

"  What   is   your   favorite   school  ? " 

"  I  suppose  the  allopathic,  but  perhaps  the  modified 
allopathic,  or  the  eclectic,  perhaps." 

"How  about  the  homeopathic ? " 

"  Well,  Mr.  Graham,  I  do  not  believe  there  is  enough 
of  it  to  amount  to  a  distinct  system.  Of  course  I  do  not 
object,  if  any  one  chooses  to  use  it.  Many  nice  people 
will  have  no  other.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  once 
brought  down  the  house  with  this  exhaustive  statement, 
'  Homoeopathy  has  long  been  encysted,  and  is  carried  as 
quietly  on  the  body  politic,  as  an  old  wen.'  I  heard  him 
say  it.  I  have  no  prejudices  against  it,  but  if  anybody 
recommends  homoeopathic  medicine  to  me,  I  always  think 
what  occurred  to  a  friend  of  mine.  I  know  the  man 
well,  and  I  know  he  told  the  truth.  He  had  not  been 
feeling  well,  and  had  some  rheumatism.  He  consulted  a 
homoeopathic  physician,  a  good  man,  whom  I  also  know. 
He  put  up  quite  a  large  bottle  of  sugar  pellets,  which  he 


ROY  DINES   OUT.  279 

was  to  take,  four  at  a  time,  three  times  a  day.  The 
patient  stayed  at  home,  and  was  company  for  his  grand- 
son, a  boy  of  about  three  years.  He  took  out  his  pellets, 
and  set  the  bottle  down  on  the  table.  The  medicine  had 
little  taste  or  smell.  It  melted  in  his  mouth  and  was 
gone  down  the  red  lane.  He  mused  a  little  and  queried 
in  his  mind,  if  so  little  cause  could  have  much  effect.  It 
seemed  queer,  so  small  an  atom,  on  so  large  a  man.  All 
at  once  he  remembered  that  he  was  watching  the  boy. 
It  was  poor  vigilance.  The  boy  had  been  suspiciously 
still,  and  lo,  he  had  just  eaten  the  last  one  of  that  lot  of 
pellets.  The  old  man  was  scared,  but  he  did  not  run. 
The  boy  was  all  right.  The  old  man  did  watch  him  now, 
for  a  change  of  color,  or  a  sign  of  pain,  or  some  sign  of 
result.  And  the  result  was,  there  was  no  result.  The 
boy  played  all  the  afternoon.  Nothing  came  of  it,  except 
that  the  old  man  was  much  improved  by  laughing  at  the 
loss  of  his  medicine.  And  since  then,  when  I  hear  of  the 
blessed  little  pellets,  I  think  of  the  boy  and  the  picnic  he 
had  of  them.  However,  I  think  that  homoeopathic 
patients  are  not  often  hurt  by  too  much  medicine,  which 
is  more  than  I  can  say  of  some  other  practice.  So  it  is 
certainly  a  negative  good,  and  sometimes  it  may  be  a 
positive." 

"  You  are  not  very  belligerent,  Mr.  Bartlett." 

"  Why  should  I  be?  I  should  gain  nothing  by  it,  and 
be  in  a  worse  condition  to  learn  wisdom,  than  if  I  was  a 
strong  partisan.  So  I  fight  no  windmills." 

"I  wish  more  people  thought  so,"  said  Mrs.  Graham. 

"  Come,  Mary,"  said  Mr.  Graham,  "  please  to  give  us  a 
song." 

"What  will  it  be,  uncle?" 


280  THE  WILD  ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

"  O  let  it  be  ray  favorite,  '  The  Maid  of  Dundee,'  and 
another  that  you  like  yourself." 

The  large  Chickering  piano  gave  them  a  beautiful  prel- 
ude, and  Mary  Graham  sang,  O  so  sweetly.  It  was  a 
ripple  of  sweetest  melody.  I  have  heard  her  sing  it,  and 
never  heard  a  song  that  I  liked  better.  Then  she  played 
a  selection.  It  was  followed  by  "  Homeward  Bound,"  as 
played  by  Prof.  E.  L.  Gurney,  of  Cambridge,  and  it  was 
full  of  wonderful  variations.  She  ended  the  theme  by 
singing  the  majestic  hymn  — 

"  Out  on  the  dark  heaving  ocean  we  glide. 
We're  homeward  bound,  homeward  bound." 

It  was  an  uplifting  song,  and  when  the  last  sweet  notes 
died  away,  the  clock  chimed  the  hour  of  ten. 

Roy  said,  "  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Graham,  it  is  time  to  go.  I 
am  obliged  to  you  for  one  of  the  pleasantest  evenings  of 
my  life." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,"  Mr.  Graham  answered.  "  We 
hope  to  have  you  here  again  soon." 

Miss  Graham  honored  the  going  guest,  and  he  bade  her 
good-night  at  the  door.  The  night  was  cold.  Roy  cast 
his  eyes  up  at  the  house,  as  he  went  toward  Beacon  Hill. 
"  I  declare,  that  is  a  beauty,"  said  he  to  himself.  "  O  it 
is  past  all  belief,  how  beautiful  is  beauty,  and  cleanliness, 
and  love,  and  song,  and  Christian  living,  and  hoping,  and 
aspiring.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Graham  are  as  fine  people  as  I 
ever  met.  Why,  I  don't  see  but  what  they  are  as  good 
as  my  father  and  mother,  and  that  is  good  enough.  And 
Miss  Graham  is  a  very  talented  and  accomplished  young 
lady.  To  play  with  such  phrasing  and  expression,  and 
to  sing  with  such  feeling.  Well,  well,  well,  and  to  paint 


HOY   DINES    OUT.  281 

so  well  too.  It  is  rare  to  find  one  accomplishment  that  is 
really  good  enough  to  entertain  you,  but  here  is  a 
woman  with  three.  If  she  has  human  faults  I  have  not 
seen  them  in  an  acquaintance  of  several  months.  Well, 
well,  well.  There  are  some  white  folks  in  this  world,  surely. 
And  the  Warrens,  too,  blessed  people.  Yes,  yes.  There 
is  a  heaven,  and  even  here  it  is  begun.  And  there  is  a 
hell,  too,  to  put  dog-stealers  in,  and  they  are  already  in 
it,  and  it  is  in  them,  or  they  would  not  steal  Canis  Major. 
Well,  well,  well,  I  am  blest." 

Now,  reader,  don't  you  think  he  was  ?    I  do. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

A   CASE    AT   LAW. 

THE  days  went  pleasantly  along  with  Roy  Bartlett. 
As  soon  as  the  studio  was  open,  one  day,  there  came  a 
knock  on  the  door.  It  was  Edric  Lyman,  Roy's  lawyer, 
about  Roy's  age.  It  was  a  pleasant  meeting. 

"  How  is  business,  Mr.  Lyman  ?" 

"Very  good.  Mr.  Bartlett,  I  had  a  queer  thing  hap- 
pen yesterday.  Have  you  time  to  hear  it?" 

"  Certainly.  I  can  paint  any  time  and  all  the  time. 
So  if  something  happens  to  you,  that  I  ought  to  hear, 
please  tell  me." 

"  Some  days  ago,  one  morning,  as  soon  as  I  got  into 
my  office,  there  came  a  man  whom  I  had  known  as  a  real 
estate  agent.  He  looked  all  around,  and,  seeing  I  was 
apparently  alone,  he  sat  down.  Want  a  case  ?  said  he. 

"  Yes,  sir,  lawyers  always  want  cases." 

"  There  is  a  mortgage,"  said  he,  producing  it ;  "  it  bears 
the  signature  of  Eli  Bertram.  It  is  his  own  signature,  I 
saw  him  sign  it.  It  is  for  ten  thousand  dollars.  The 
property  is  worth  about  fifteen.  So  it  is  sate.  I  do  not 
wish  to  foreclose  it.  It  is  recorded  all  right  and  no  one 
can  find  any  irregularity  about  it.  I  will  discharge  the 
mortgage  for  a  little  less  than  the  face  value,  and  I  might 
reduce  it  to  one-half  rather  than  fight  it.  But  I  should 
not  want  to.  Here  is  his  address.  See  if  he  will  settle 
and  what  he  will  pay.  I  will  look  in  every  morning.  If 

282 


A  CASE  AT   LAW.  283 

you  have  not  heard  anything,  shake  your  head  and  I  will 
go  out.  If  he  has  been  in,  beckon  with  your  finger  and 
I  will  come." 

"  Yes,  sir.  Now  please  tell  me,  who  does  this  mortgage 
run  to?" 

"Me,  Solomon  Shavin." 

"Well,  Mr.  Shavin,  what  objection  will  he  bring  to 
paying  this  mortgage  ?" 

"  He  will  say  he  never  made  a  mortgage,  never  signed 
a  mortgage,  never  got  the  money." 

"  What  shall  you  say  ?  " 

"  I  shall  show  his  real  signature,  his  seal,  and  his  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  deed,  before  a  justice  of  the  peace 
who  happens  to  be  my  clerk.  There  is  also  another  wit- 
ness. Oh,  I  have  got  him  strong.  He  can't  get  away." 

"  Was  the  money  paid  to  him  by  a  bank  check  ?  " 

"Xo.  It  will  be  proved  that  the  money  was  paid, 
a  part  in  cash,  and  a  part  in  settlement  of  an  old  claim 
which  I  had  against  him." 

"  Did  he  acknowledge  this  claim  ?  " 

"  Yes,  er,  no,  he  didn't  really,  you  know,  and  there  is 
where  he  will  stick.  But  I  can  prove  that  I  paid  him  a 
large  sum  of  money,  which  I  really  did,  you  know,  that 
is,  it  was  a  large  sum  to  look  at,  and  my  clerk  will  swear 
it  was  a  large  roll  of  bills.  But  really,  the  bills  were 
mostly  small  ones." 

"  Now,  Mr.  Shavin,  you  have  not  told  me  the  whole 
story.  How  can  a  doctor  cure  a  patient  when  there  is 
something  the  matter  and  the  patient  won't  tell?  He 
can  do  nothing.  Neither  can  I.  You  must  tell  me 
everything,  then  I  may  be  able  to  help  you  get  your 
money." 


284  THE   WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

"  All  right,  I  guess  I  must.  I'll  begin  away  back.  If 
you  help  me  to  collect  this  money,  I  will  pay  you  ten  per 
cent,  of  it,  and  it  will  make  you  rich.  Will  you  do  it  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  will,  if  it  is  all  right,"  I  answered. 

"  Bet  yer  life  it  is  all  right.  I've  got  it  strong,"  said  he. 
"  Now  listen.  Many  years  ago,  there  was  a  vacant  lot 
of  land  at  the  South  End.  There  was  a  large  mortgage 
put  on  it.  I  knew  the  land  well,  and  played  on  it  when 
I  was  a  boy.  The  mortgagee  was  a  friend  of  my  father. 
This  man  was  cast  away  at  sea,  and,  as  he  had  no  heirs, 
it  never  was  paid  or  discharged.  My  brother  died  a  spell 
ago,  and  left  me  that  mortgage,  and  the  old  note  that 
never  was  paid.  So  you  see  it  is  very  valuable." 

"  See  here,  Mr.  Shavin,  you  made  that  mortgage,  didn't 
you?  you  copied  it  out  of  the  Suffolk  registry,  didn't 
you  ?  word  for  word,  on  old  paper  of  course  ?  " 

"  Wai,  if  you  must  know,  I  did,  an'  you  can  bet  it  is 
on  old  paper,  for  both  mortgage  and  note  are  on  paper  cut 
out  of  one  of  old  Billy  Gray's  account  books.  You 
can't  hoot  me  down  on  that.  Not  much." 

"  I  see,"  said  I,  "  you  have  it  strong.  Did  you  make 
the  mortgage  exact?" 

"  Yes,  I  did.  Every  word.  And  the  note  is  in  all  the 
old-fashioned  spelling.  Oh,  I  have  any  amount  of  old 
papers  to  go  to." 

"  How  about  the  ink  ?  " 

"Wai  now,  I  am  all  right  there.  I  just  made  my  ink 
out  of  an  old  resate  of  logwood,  nutgalls,  old  nails  and 
vinegar,  and  it  is  just  yaller  with  age.  So  I  have  a  big 
and  solid  claim  to  land  that  has  big  blocks  on  it  now.  I 
told  Eli  Bertram  that  I  had  a  claim  on  his  land,  and  my 
clerk  heard  me." 


A   CASE  AT  LAW.  285 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"  He  said  he  had  heard  of  me  before.  He  owns  a  part 
of  the  land.  I  went  on  his  piece  and  did  a  little  damage, 
for  which  he  demanded  a  small  sum.  I  told  him  to  call 
and  get  his  money.  He  came.  I  told  him  my  pens  were 
poor.  I  like  a  goose  quill.  I  made  a  bill  for  twenty-five 
I  dollars  due  him,  fixed  it  in  a  little  frame  I  had,  to  make 
'it  lay  flat,  and  he  signed  it,  or  thought  he  did.  There 
was  a  crease  just  above  his  signature  and  when  that  bill 
was  taken  off,  there  was  his  signature  to  this  mortgage 
due  in  three  months,  for  ten  thousand  dollars.  The  con- 
sideration is  twenty-five  dollars  in  cash,  and  a  release  of 
my  old  mortgage  on  his  real  estate.  My  two  clerks  are 
witnesses.  They  get  a  dime  when  I  win.  Don't  you 
think  I  have  got  Jhim  ?" 

I  told  him  it  looked  so,  decidedly. 

"  Well,  well,  well ! "  said  Roy,  "  I  shall  give  up." 

"  Don't  give  up  yet,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  for  the  best  is 
to  come." 

"  Now  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Shavin,  "  my  brother  was  a 
bachelor.  I  looked  out  that  his  will  was  all  right  forme, 
for  he  hadn't  much,  and  I  started  this  thing  some  time 
ago.  I  let  him  have  money  to  carry  him  through,  on 
condition  that  he  assigned  these  papers  to  me,  and  willed 
everything  to  me.  He  did  it  easy  enough.  The  note 
was  assigned  by  the  mortgagee  to  him,  and  now  it  is 

O  »/ 

legally  and  honestly  mine.  The  mortgage  is  sound,  and 
the  interest  is  very  large.  The  best  part  of  it  is,  Mrs. 
Parna  Warren  and  her  daughters  own  a  part  of  the 
land,  with  big  stores  on  it,  and  they  are  rich,  and  I  can 
just  make  them  settle." 

Roy  jumped  when  the  Warrens  were  mentioned. 


286  THE  WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

"  Mr.  Shavin  continued,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  But  Eli 
Bertram  is  old  and  failing,  and  can't  live  long.  If  you 
scare  him  a  little,  and  tell  him  his  memory  is  poor,  he 
will  settle.  That  will  establish  a  precedent,  and  the 
others  who  own  the  mortgaged  land  will  come  down 
easy.  The  old  mortgage  and  the  note  have  been  carried 
in  my  pocket,  to  make  them  look  old.  They  have  had 
tea  stains  on  them,  and  iron  rust.  I  have  them  in  my 
safe,  and  they  are  just  the  honestest-lookin'  old  docki- 
ments  you  ever  did  see.  Now  when  will  you  write  to 
Eli  Bertram  and  start  toward  your  ten  per  cent.  ?  You 
can  take  the  money  yourself,  and  pay  me  mine.  Then 
you  will  be  safe  and  run  no  risk.  I  think  they  will  all 
pay  without  a  suit." 

"  Then  that  is  your  case,  Mr.  Shavin.  If  I  understand 
you  right,  the  old  mortgage  is  a  real  one,  in  the  registry. 
So  it  makes  little  difference  whether  your  copy  is  real  or 
not.  The  old  note  was  assigned  to  your  brother,  or 
appears  so,  and  was  willed  to  you,  and  Eli  Bertram's 
mortgage  is  based  upon  that.  It  is  really  three  forgeries, 
when  we  are  all  alone  by  ourselves." 

"Yes,  but  don't  speak  so  loud,"  said  Mr.  Shavin. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Shavin,  I  don't  want  your  case." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  I  don't  want  that  kind  of  cases." 

"  Won't  you  if  I  pay  you  a  bigger  per  cent.  ?" 

"  No,  sir.  If  you  would  give  me  the  whole  business  I 
would  burn  it.  I  don't  get  money  that  way." 

Mr.  Shavin  looked  as  though  he  had  met  a  setback. 

"  Wai,  I'm  sorry,  an'  mebby  I  sha'n't  do  it."  He  went 
away.  I  got  up  and  opened  the  window,  for  the  air 
seemed  poisoned.  I  stepped  to  my  closet,  only  four  feet 


A   CASE   AT  LAW.  287 

away,  where  my  typewriter  and  copyist  girl  happened  to 
be,  and  I  said,  "  Miss  Carter,  did  you  get  my  signal  ?  " 

«  I  did." 

"Did  you  hear  that?" 

"I  did,  every  word." 

«  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?  " 

"I  am  almost  ashamed  of  mankind." 

"  Will  you  take  pen  and  ink,  and  sit  down  and  write, 
day,  hour,  and  minute,  a  correct  statement,  as  you  can 
remember,  of  the  whole  interview.  Did  you  see  him 
plainly?" 

"  I  did,  sir.  And  I  know  him  well  besides.  He 
brought  in  claims  against  my  father's  estate,  that  my 
mother  always  said  were  false.  But  he  got  his  money." 

"Mr.  Bartlett,  yesterday  I  had  a  call  from  another 
man,  and  who  do  you  suppose  it  was  ?  Well,  sir,  it  was 
old  Eli  Bertram." 

"Was  it?"  said  Roy.     "  Good,  good  enough." 

"  Yes,  it  was,"  said  Edric  Lyman.  "  I  touched  a  spring 
—  but  don't  you  tell  of  it  —  that  called  Miss  Carter 
where  she  could  hear  the  interview.  He  began :  '  Are  you 
Edric  Lyman?'  'lam.'  'Mr.  Lyman,  I  am  the  victim  of 
a  damnable  conspiracy.'  '  I  know  it,'  said  I.  You  ought 
to  have  seen  his  eyes  open.  'You  know  it?  How  do 
you  know  it?'  'If  you  are  my  client,  Mr.  Bertram,  you 
will  find  out  later.  But  not  now.  I  assure  you,  I  know 
it,  and  all  about  it.'  '  Can  you  help  me,  Mr.  Lyman?  and 
will  you  serve  me  honestly  and  faithfully  if  I  pay  you 
well  for  it?'  'I  will,  sir,  and  to  your  satisfaction,  both  in 
the  work  and  the  pay  also,  if  I  serve  you  at  all.'  That 
pleased  the  old  man.  He  had  got  a  lawyer's  letter,  and 
of  course  it  was  from  a  shyster  of  a  lawyer.  He  had 


288  THE   WILD   ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

read  the  rascally  demand,  and  had  gone  to  an  honest 
friend  for  advice.  Now,  Mr.  Bartlett,  who,  among  all  the 
sons  of  Adam,  do  you  suppose  it  was  that  sent  Eli  Ber- 
tram to  me,  as  an  honest  lawyer?  Well,  Mr.  Bartlett,  it 
was  the  man  who  called  you  bad  names,  settled  it  like  a 
man,  and  then  came  back  and  gave  you  five  hundred  dol- 
lars for  more  pictures." 

"I  declare,  I  am  surprised  again,"  said  Roy. 

They  both  laughed  heartily  at  the  luck. 

"  The  next  thing  to  do,  Mr.  Bartlett,  is  to  see  Mrs. 
Warren  and  her  daughters,  and  the  other  occupants  of 
the  mortgaged  land,  to  find  out  whether  they  wish  to  be 
my  clients  or  not.  The  case  is  mine  now.  I  own  it. 
I  can  crush  the  whole  villany,  and  the  man  who 
did  it ;  but  I  doubt  if  another  man  can.  You  keep  your 
own  counsel,  Mr.  Bartlett.  Speak  a  good  word  for  me 
to  the  Warrens,  and  I  can  save  them  many  thousands  of 
dollars.  I  know  it  is  irregular,  after  you  know  a  man's 
case,  but  I  should  be  a  scoundrel  myself  if  I  do  not  stop 
this  villany.  But  I  am  taking  too  much  of  your  time. 
I  must  call  on  Mrs.  Parna  Warren.  I  thought  it  would 
not  do  to  keep  any  of  this  from  you,  as  it  came  remotely 
by  you.  I  also  thought  it  would  not  do  to  visit  the  War- 
rens without  letting  you  know  it." 

"  Mr.  Bartlett,  I  wish  to  ask  you  a  leading  question." 

"  Go  on,"  said  Roy. 

"  Mr.  Bartlett,  are  you  paying  especial  attention  to  Miss 
Sarah  Warren  ?  " 

"  No,  Mr.  Lyman,  I  am  not,  and  I  never  did.  But  I 
regard  her  as  a  friend,  and  a  very  amiable  and  accom- 
plished young  lady." 

"  Thank  you,  sir.     That  gives  some  one  else  a  chance." 


A  CASE  AT  LAW.  289 

"I  wish  you  good  luck,"  said  Roy. 

"Thank  you  again." 

Mr.  Lyman  went  to  call  on  Mrs.  Warren.  Roy  sent  a 
note,  saying  it  would  be  pleasant  to  him  if  Mr.  Edric 
Lyman  was  invited  to  their  six  o'clock  dinner.  The 
case  was  stated  to  Mrs.  Warren.  She  was  surprised,  but 
would  consider  it.  It  would  be  agreeable  to  Mr.  Bartlett 
to  have  his  friend  dine  with  them,  and  Mrs.  Warren 
joined  in  the  invitation.  The  invitation  was  accepted, 
and  Edric  Lyman  said  in  his  heart,  bless  Roy  Bartlett  for 
that.  He  has  done  me  a  good  turn  at  once.  I  do  not 
need  to  say  that  the  dinner  was  a  good  one.  The  War- 
rens always  had  something  to  eat.  Miss  Emily  was  good 
at  conversation,  and  Sarah  was  vivacious  and  splendidly 
musical.  Mr.  Lyman  had  met  them  often  on  coterie 
nights,  and  they  seemed  like  old  acquaintances.  You  let 
people  laugh  together,  and  they  will  soon  be  acquainted. 
It  was  settled  that  Mr.  Lyman  should  consult  with  Mrs. 
Warren's  lawyer.  Then  they  went  to  the  drawing-room 
for  music.  During  the  evening,  Edric  found  time  to  say 
to  Miss  Sarah  Warren  that  he  had  been  worshipping  her 
at  a  distance  for  a  long  time,  and  might  he  call  on  her 
sometimes,  and  get  better  acquainted  ?  Will  you  be  real 
good  and  desirable  ?  she  asked,  with  a  smile.  Yes,  I  will, 
truly.  I  will  always  do  my  best  to  please  you.  She 
made  just  a  little  comical  bow,  and  he  whispered,  O 
thank  you ;  I  will  try  to  deserve  it.  Then  there  were  two 
more  young  folks,  each  with  a  bright,  beautiful,  new  idea 
in  their  minds,  both  willing  to  keep  the  new  command- 
ment. When  Edric  Lyman  had  gone,  and  Roy  had 
ascended  to  what  he  funnily  called  his  boudoir,  Mrs. 
Warren  was  alone  with  her  daughters.  Sjhe  had  a  spice 


290  THE   WILD   ARTIST  IN   BOSTON. 

of  mischief  in  her.  She  said,  "Did  you  have  a  nice 
confab  with  Mr.  Lyraan,  Sarah?" 

"Yes,  mother.  Your  daughters  can  never  come  up  to 
what  their  mother  used  to  be.  But  they  will  do  their 
best." 

"  Yes,  you  seemed  to  be  doing  very  well,  Sarah.  That 
was  a  most  gracious  bow  you  gave  him.  I  should  not  be 
surprised  if  something  came  of  it." 

"  All  things  are  possible,"  said  Miss  Sarah.  "  But  our 
mother  has  made  such  an  elegant  married  woman,  that 
it  is  to  be  hoped  that  her  daughters  will  follow  the  ex- 
ample of  their  illustrious  predecessor." 

Mrs.  Warren  had  not  made  much  by  trying  to  poke 
fun  at  Miss  Sarah. 

Sam  Tamper  was  the  lawyer  that  had  taken  the  case 
for  Solomon  Shavin.  Whether  Shavin  had  told  the 
whole  story  as  he  had  to  Edric  Lyman,  I  do  not  know. 
But  as  I  think  he  had  not,  this  gives  Sam  Tamper  the  bene- 
fit of  a  large  doubt.  He  was  known  as  a  sharp  lawyer, 
who  would  take  any  case,  right  or  wrong,  but  perhaps  he 
would  not  disbar  himself  by  any  suicidal  villany  like  this. 
Mrs.  Warren  got  a  letter  and  a  demand  for  a  settlement 
from  Sam  Tamper.  She  at  once  sent  it  to  Edric  Lyman. 
He,  in  turn,  called  on  Mrs.  Warren's  old  lawyer,  and 
showed  the  letter.  The  old  lawyer  was  one  of  those  old 
settlers,  that  believe  in  themselves,  faithful  to  his  clients, 
honest  as  lawyers  go,  slow,  a  man  of  property,  family,  and 
position.  He  would  take  no  suggestions  from  a  young 
lawyer  until  he  was  obliged  to.  He  read  the  letter,  and 
said  he  did  not  believe  any  one  was  going  to  run  away 
with  Mrs.  Warren's  estate.  He  thought  not.  He  looked 
up  through  his  glasses,  and  beamed  all  his  magnetic  eyes 
at  Edric  Lyman. 


A  CASE  AT   LAW.  291 

"That  depends  something  upon  me,"  said  Edric 
Lyman. 

The  old  man's  back  was  up  in  a  minute.  He  was  often 
called  to  suppress  young  lawyers.  If,  like  a  butting  goat, 
who  was  driven  off  with  brick-bats  and  clubs,  and  got  the 
worst  of  it,  even  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still. 
Said  he,  "  And  do  you  think  that  you,  a  boy,  although 
admitted  to  the  bar,  are  the  only  man  in  God's  world 
that  can  win  a  case?" 

Edric  Lyman  laughed  a  mischievous  little  laugh.  Said 
he,  "  Mr.  Strong,  if  you  and  I  were  to  fight  two  cases 
alike,  with  just  the  same  evidence,  you  would  un- 
doubtedly win  best,  from  your  fine  position  at  the  bar, 
and  with  your  large  experience.  But  if  AVC  had  two  dan- 
gennis  cases,  and  your  enemy  had  all  the  evidence  he 
wanted,  right  and  wrong,  and  you  had  none,  and,  if  I 
have  my  case  with  all  the  evidence  I  want,  together  with 
a  full  admission  of  all  the  perjury  and  forgery  in  it,  before 
a  good  witness,  then  who  would  win  ?  " 

"Is  that  so?"  asked  Lawver  Strong. 

v  O 

"  Yes,  sir,  that  is  just  so.  I  have  such  evidence  that 
Solomon  Shavin  will  not  dare  to  attack  Mrs.  Parna  War- 
ren or  Eli  Bertram,  and,  by  the  way,  I  have  Eli  Bertram's 
case  now,  and  seven  other  occupants  of  this  mortgaged 
land.  They  are  all  my  clients  now,  and  I  think  I  can  say, 
I  am  absolutely  sure,  that  if  Solomon  Shavin  does  fight 
these  cases  I  can  win  for  all  my  clients,  and  send  him  to 
state  prison  for  life.  But  I  have  no  idea  he  will  do  any- 
thing, but  surrender,  when  he  finds  he  is  surrounded. 
Now,  Mr.  Strong,  Solomon  has  a  strong  case.  He  has 
the  original  mortgage  and  note,  or  what  looks  like  it ;  all 
the  witnesses  he  wants,  and  the  whole  business  legally 


292  THE   WILD  ARTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

willed  to  him  by  his  brother.  The  chain  is  very  strong 
and  apparently  complete.  If  I  had  not  the  whole  thing 
confessed,  with  a  witness,  I  could  not  hope  to  win  the 
case,  and  even  now,  it  must  be  very  well  managed  to  win. 
Still,  with  what  I  know,  I  think  I  can  add  collateral  evi- 
dence enough  to  win  a  vindication.  So  I  need  your  help, 
Mr.  Strong.  There  are  parts  of  this  case  that  I  wish  to 
manage  in  my  own  way.  If  you  will  see  Sam  Tamper, 
and  get  copies  of  the  mortgage  and  note,  and  a  copy  of 
Eli  Bertram's  mortgage  to  Solomon  Shaviri,  so  that  I 
do  not  appear  in  it  at  all,  and  not  let  any  one  know  that 
I  am  in  the  case,  I  will  work  on  it  in  another  direction, 
to  as  good  purpose.  Don't  let  Sam  Tamper  or  Solo- 
mon Shavin  know  that  I  am  in  the  case  at  all,  or  it  will 
spoil  all." 

Mr.  Strong  had  been  deferred  to,  kowtowed  to,  molli- 
fied, soft-sawdered,  and  more  than  all  convinced.  An 
old  lawyer  likes  taffy  as  well  as  a  girl,  and  they  will 
take  a  bushel  of  it.  So  Lawyer  Strong  concluded  to  be 
gracious.  If  he  had  an  idea  that  Edric  Lyman  was  lead- 
ing him,  he  would  have  kicked  like  a  steer.  But  Edric 
Lyman  was  leading  him. 

Lawyer  Strong  called  on  Sam  Tamper,  and  was  taken 
to  the  office  of  Solomon  Shavin,  as  Mrs.  Warren's  attor- 
ney. It  was  his  right  to  see  the  mortgage  and  note.  It 
was  shown.  It  was  old  and  looked  honest. 

"  Have  any  of  the  others  offered  to  settle  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Strong. 

"  Yes,  sir.  Eli  Bertram  did,  but  he  is  sick  of  it  now. 
These  old  men  change  their  minds  as  well  as  young 
ones." 

Mr.  Strong  looked  carefully  through  his  glasses,  at  the 


A  CASE   AT  LAW.  293 

mortgage  note,  and  Solomon  Shavin  looked  at  him.  Mr. 
Strong  spoke  slowly,  "  I  do  not  know  what  Mrs.  Warren 
will  say  to  this,  if  she  has  to  lose  a  part  of  her  estate. 
But  a  mortgage  is  a  mortgage.  What  part  of  this  land 
does  her  estate  cover  ?  " 

"  About  half  of  it,"  said  Shavin. 

"  It  will  be  quite  a  bill  if  she  has  to  pay  it." 

Solomon  Shavin  nodded. 

"It  seems  to  be  complete,"  says  Mr.  Strong.  "I 
should  like  a  photograph  of  the  note  to  show  Mrs.  War- 
ren. It  will  not  cost  me  much,  and  I  will  think  it  over 
in  my  office.  It  will  not  do  to  surrender  too  quick.  I 
will  send  my  son  with  a  photographer  here.  I  wish  you 
would  quietly  figure  up  what  you  will  settle  for,  and  send 
it  to  me  by  mail.  Xow  make  it  low  and  save  bother. 
Just  state  for  what  sum  you  will  release  your  claim  on 
Mrs.  Warren's  estate.  It  did  not  cost  you  anything,  and 
you  had  better  take,  a  part  than  risk  all.  A  good  run  is 
better  than  a  bad  fight.  I  shall  have  a  job  with  Mrs. 
Warren  and  she  may  want  to  fight  it  any  way.  You 
never  can  tell  just  what  a  Avoman  will  do,  or  a  man  either, 
for  that  matter.  Now  make  it  low." 

Mr.  Strong  was  gone.  He  had  done  well.  He  was  an 
old  fox.  Solomon  Shavin  smiled,  rubbed  his  pockets,  and 
almost  felt  the  shekels  pouring  into  them.  The  photo- 
graph was  taken,  both  of  the  note  and  the  mortgage. 
Shavin  sent  his  terms,  what  he  would  release  Mrs. 
Warren's  estate  for.  It  was  lower  than  Edric  Lyman 
Bad  thought. 

Mr.  Lyman  had  a  young  friend  who  was  studying  law 
in  another  office.  He  went  to  him.  He  asked  him  if  he 
did  not  wish  to  take  some  lessons  in  the  manufacture  of 


294  THE   WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

paper,  and  its  age.  He  said,  "  I  will  give  you  the  money. 
I  wish  you  to  go  to  some  one  familiar  with  old  paper, 
who  can  tell  about  when  and  where  it  was  made.  Pay 
him  a  dollar  for  a  lesson.  Most  any  one  will  do  it  for 
that.  Take  several  lessons  and  read  up  on  it.  You 
make  a  collection  of  old  writing  paper,  with  the  date,  as 
well  as  you  can,  and  the  maker's  name.  Get  facts  and 
record  them.  Get  thirty  or  forty  kinds.  It  will  do  you 
good.  Then  take  your  collection  to  Solomon  Shavin,  and 
give  him  a  dollar  or  two,  for  a  lesson  or  two.  He  has 
one  of  old  Billy  Gray's  account  books.  Don't  let  him 
know  you  know  it.  Get  a  sight  of  it  if  you  can.  Then 
if  you  can  borrow  that  old  book,  bring  it  to  me.  I  wish 
to  see  it.  Don't  for  the  world  let  him  or  any  one  know 
that  you  are  doing  anything  but  studying  up  on  paper. 
If  you  succeed  in  borrowing  the  book,  or  if  you  can  buy 
a  leaf  out  of  it  for  a  dollar  or  two,  and  get  Solomon 
Shavin  to  write  on  it,  that  it  is  a  leaf  out  of  old  Billy  Gray's 
account  book,  that  will  do  as  well.  Then  I  will  give  you 
ten  dollars  for  the  leaf  out  of  the  old  account  book. 
Now  mind  your  eye,  and  don't  scatter." 

The  young  man  was  a  sharp  one,  with  fun  in  him.  He 
looked  up  in  a  comical  way,  and  said,  "  Do  you  see  any 
chickens  about  me?'  Treat  a  poor  boy  'spectable  if  he  am 
brack." 

"  You  will  do,"  said  Edric  Lyman.  "  Now  put  it 
through  as  fast  as  you  can.  Here  is  a  V,  to  start  on." 

Four  days  later,  the  student  called  with  about  fifty 
different  kinds  of  old  papers,  mostly  notes,  deeds,  and 
legal  documents.  Also  a  page  out  of  old  Billy  Gray's 
account  book,  endorsed  as  such,  by  Solomon  Shavin.  It 
was  wanted  as  a  souvenir  and  a  specimen.  It  cost  a  dol- 


A  CASE   AT  LAW.  295 

lar.  It  was  a  nice  bit  of  evidence.  Edric  Lyraan 
allowed  him  to  retain  a  quarter  of  the  leaf,  told  him  to 
record  the  getting  of  it,  in  his  diary,  and  gave  him.  ten 
dollars.  Both  were  pleased.  Then  Lawyer  Lyman 
called  on  Lawyer  Strong.  He  told  the  old  man  what  he 
had  done.  Furthermore,  he  had  gone  away  back  in  the 
Suffolk  registry  of  deeds,  and  had  actually  found  the 
original  mortgage,  which  had  never  been  taken  from  the 
registry  by  the  mortgagee. 

Lawyer  Strong  laughed.  Said  he,  "Do  yon  always 
have  such  strong  evidence  in  your  cases?" 

"I  do  not  take  any  case  that  is  against  right  and  jus- 
tice." 

"That  is  a  splendid  sentiment,  Mr.  Lyman.  You 
ought  to  have  success  in  this  life  and  the  next." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Strong.  I  hope  to  have  your  ap- 
proval always." 

O  an  old  goose  will  take  a  pile  of  stuffing. 

"  Then,"  said  Lawyer  Lyman,  "  I  am  all  ready  to  sit 
down  on  Solomon  Shavin.  Suppose  you  invite  him  to 
call  here  at  your  office,  at  nine  to-morrow  morning,  and 
bring  the  mortgage  and  note  with  him.  You  do  the 
talking.  He  is  already  threatening  Eli  Bertram  strongly. 
You  state  the  case.  You  can  show  the  leaf  from  old 
Billy  Gray's  account  book.  I  shall  tell  him  that  I  am 
paying  attention  to  one  of  the  Misses  Warren,  and  don't 
propose  to  see  her  robbed  if  I  can  help  it.  Then  I  shall 
demand  the  note,  the  mortgage  that  he  cooked  up,  and  the 
discharge  of  Eli  Bertram's  mortgage,  and  Eli  Bertram's 
note,  which  is  also  a  forgery.  Then  you,  Mr.  Strong, 
ought  to  demand  about  five  hundred  dollars  damages  to 
you,  for  conspiracy.  After  I  come  in,  I  will  have  an 


296  THE   WILD   AKTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

officer  at  your  door,  for  contingencies,  and  a  blank  writ 
on  my  desk.  Then  it  is  either  settle  or  state  prison." 

It  was  done.  Solomon  Shavin  was  scared  almost  to 
death.  The  finding  of  the  old  mortgage  in  the  registry, 
and  the  leaf  out  of  old  Billy  Gray's  account  book,  con- 
vinced him  that  his  cause  was  lost.  He  paid  Mr.  Strong 
five  hundred  dollars  for  damages,  upon  condition  that  the 
false  mortgage  and  note,  and  all  evidences  of  his  crime, 
be  burned  in  the  grate,  then  and  there.  He  signed  a 
discharge  of  Eli  Bertram's  mortgage,  and  gave  up  the 
forged  note,  which  was  burned.  Then  the  scoundrel  de- 
parted. Edric  Lyman  asked  Mr.  Strong  what  part  of 
the  money  he  would  take. 

"  O  give  me  a  hundred,  and  keep  the  balance  your- 
self." It  was  done. 

Said  Mr.  Strong,  "  Mr.  Lyman,  I  congratulate  you  on 
the  way  you  have  managed  this  case.  It  is  a  credit  to 
you.  You  will  stand  high  in  our  profession.  You  will 
never  want  a  good  word  from  me." 

Edric  Lyman  thanked  him,  and  went  out  with  four 
hundred  dollars  in  his  pocket.  He  showed  a  splendid  set 
of  teeth  under  his  moustache,  he  smiled  so  sunnily 
as  he  said  to  himself,  "  I  captured  that  old  egotist,  hook 
and  line,  bob  and  sinker.  Cast  thy  taffy  upon  the 
waters,  and  thou  shalt  receive  it  again,  after  many  days." 
He  went  into  his  office  and  sat  at  his  desk.  He  touched 
a  spring  with  his  foot,  and  Miss  Carter  came  to  him.  He 
said,  "Miss  Carter  —  Old  Solomon  Shavin  went  after 
wool,  and  came  back  shorn.  Please  accept  fifty  dollars 
extra  pay,  for  the  help  you  were  to  me  in  my  office,  and 
for  general  faithfulness."  She  blossomed.  Eli  Bertram 
set  the  price  for  Edric  Lyman's  faithfulness.  It  was  lib' 


A  CASE   AT   LAW.  297 

eral.  All  the  other  occupants  paid  fairly.  It  was  cheap, 
indeed,  for  them,  for  it  saved  thousands,  and  made  a 
handsome  sum  for  Edric  Lyman. 

Then  he  called  on  Mrs.  Warren  and  announced  that  it 
was  all  settled  forever.  She  asked  for  her  bill.  He 
would  bring  it  the  next  time  he  dined  there.  It  was  a 
cheeky  proposition,  but  Edric  Lyman  was  a  lawyer.  Be- 
sides he  was  fast  acquiring  rights  in  Mrs.  Warren's  house. 
Whoever  heard  of  a  modest  lawyer?  If  such  a  thing 
could  be,  he  would  never  be  heard  of.  I  mean  nothin^ 

'  O 

invidious.  Had  not  this  man  thwarted  crime,  protected 
the  innocent,  and  saved  many  thousands  of  dollars,  all 
for  a  very  moderate  sum  ?  What  profession  can  do  as 
much  ? 

"  Then,"  said  Mrs.  Warren,  "  please  dine  with  us  this 
evening,  and  let  us  have  it  out." 

They  did  dine  together,  and  they  had  a  good  time. 
Before  they  left  the  table,  Edric  Lyman  gave  them  a  true 
and  careful  statement  of  old  Sliavin's  villany,  and  of  the 
big  money  he  was  offered  to  win  the  case.  And,  said  he, 
"  I  think  I  could  have  won  the  case,  and  have  got  twenty 
per  cent,  or  more  for  doing  it.  But  I  told  my  mother,  I 
would  never  take  a  case  that  I  could  not  ask  God's  bless- 
ing upon  ;  and  I  will  not,  however  profitable.  I  never  had 
a  case  I  was  more  rejoiced  to  win  than  this  one.  I  have 
made  a  friend  of  Eli  Bertram,  and  he  says  he  will  put  me 
in  his  will.  Never  mind  that.  But  let  us  be  thankful 
that  right  is  triumphant,  and  rascality  punished  a  little. 
Now,  Mrs.  Warren,  here  is  your  bill."  It  read,  — 

"Mrs.  Parna  Warren,  Miss  Emily  Warren,  Miss  Sarah  War- 
ren, undivided  estate,  to  Edric  Lyman,  attorney  at  law,  debtor, 
For  le^al  services  against  the  claims  of  Solomon  Shavin. 


298  THE  WILD   ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

Sum  unstated,  but  very  large.  It  is  paid  in  full  to  this  date, 
by  the  kind  regards  of  the  aforesaid  Mrs.  Warren  and  her 
daughters. 

"  EDRIC   LYMAN,  Attorney  at  law. 

"  Witness  :  JONATHAN  STRONG,  Attorney  at  law." 

Edric  gave  her  the  bill.  She  was  surprised  indeed. 
She  had  expected  to  pay  a  large  sum.  She  urged.  No, 
never.  Not  a  cent.  Then  she  came  around  the  table 
and  kissed  him. 

"  My  turn  next,"  said  Roy.  Sure  enough  it  was.  The 
ladies  laughed  heartily. 

Said  Edric,  "  I  will  wait  a  moment  and  see  if  any  other 
lady  is  taken  that  way,"  and  you  ought  to  have  heard 
them  laugh. 

The  daughters  arose  and  ran  upstairs  to  the  drawing- 
room,  followed  by  the  gentlemen,  who  were  not  in  any 
state  of  dejection.  It  was  a  happy  evening.  Music  and 
song,  poem  and  story.  It  was  ten  o'clock  before  they 
knew  it.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  said  that  Edric  Lyman 
was  a  fine-looking  fellow.  Pleasant,  kindly,  and  wide 
awake.  First,  one  took  Mrs.  Warren's  bill,  and  analyzed 
it,  then  another.  It  was  very  interesting.  Roy  Bartlett 
was  glad  that  it  had  come  to  them  by  their  acquaintance 
with  him.  It  was  time  to  go. 

Said  Edric  Lyman,  "  Miss  Sarah,  if  you  will  escort  me 
to  the  door  I  will  go  home.  Good  night,  dears,"  he  said, 
and  bowed. 

Miss  Sarah  opened  the  door  for  him,  they  passed  through 
and  he  closed  it.  They  were  in  the  hall.  His  hat  was  in 
his  hand,  he  whispered  a  word  in  her  ear,  there  was  a 
slight  explosion,  and,  "  good  night,  dear,"  and  Edric 
Lyman  went  home  as  gay  as  a  lark.  He  was  not  much 


A  CASE  AT  LAW.  299 

of  a  stranger  in  Mrs.  "Warren's  house  after  that.  He  took 
to  Sarah  Warren  as  naturally  as  chickens  do  to  corn,  or 
robins  do  to  cherries.  He  went  out  with  all  the  Warrens, 
to  concerts,  and  society.  He  did  not  neglect  Mr-s.  War- 
ren or  Miss  Emily. 

One  evening,. a  little  latei-,  at  the  table,  Mrs.  Warren 
said,  "  I  think  we  had  better  have  the  Grahams  here  to 
dine  with.  us.  They  are  three,  we  are  four;  that  makes 
seven  of  us.  Just  a  nice  little  party  for  an  evening. 
What  do  you  say?"  They  said  yes,  only  Miss  Sarah 
quietly  remarked,  that  it  would  be  an  improvement  to 
make  it  eight. 

Mrs.  Warren  exclaimed,  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss 
Warren.  The  all-important  legal  eighth  one  shall  be  in- 
vited. And  you  please  write  all  the  invitations  yourself." 

"  All  right,  mother.     It  shall  be  done." 

It  was  done.  It  was  as  near  a  perfect  evening  as  it 
could  be.  Still,  if  we  must  criticise  it,  then  whatever 
criticism  we  might  make,  would  arise  from  the  fact,  that 
there  were  only  three  men  to  five  women.  I  say  no  more. 

The  winter  was  going  along  finely  with  them  all.  It 
had  got  to  be  the  twelfth  of  February,  and  about  nine 
o'clock  on  that  morning,  Edric  Lyman  might  htfve  been 
seen  coming  out  of  his  office  in  School  street,  and  taking 
a  bee  line  for  the  office  of  Jonathan  Strong.  He  was  in. 
He  greeted  Mr.  Lyman  warmly. 

Mr.  Lyman  said  he  had  a  case  on  hand,  that  involved 
the  future  of  two  people  certainly,  and  maybe  even  the 
lives  of  others,  and  he  wished  to  have  a  certain  document 
so  strong,  that  it  would  be  perfectly  and  legally  sufficient. 
So  he  wished  to  submit  it  to  the  learned  counsel  before 
him. 


300  THE  WILD   AETIST   IN   BOSTON. 

Talk  about  flattering  a  woman.  You  ought  to  hear  a 
lot  of  old  lawyers  soft-soap  one  another.  It  is,  "  my 
learned  brother,"  "the  eminent  counsel,"  "the  honorable 
counsel,"  "  my  scholarly  opponent,"  "  the  great  legal 
light,"  and  so  forth.  But  it  might  be  more  foolish. 

O          '  O 

They  do  not  wear  wigs  and  gowns,  as  they  do  in  England. 
Let  us  be  thankful  for  that.  After  they  were  closeted 
together,  Edric  Lyman  handed  the  learned  counsel  a 
nice,  large,  formidable-looking  envelope. 

Mr.  Strong  blew  his  nose  sonorously  and  adjusted  his 
glasses.     Then   he   slowly  and  ponderously  opened  the 
envelope,  which  was  unsealed.     Edric  Lyman  stood  with 
a  sober  face,  watching  him.     In  a  moment  the  old  man 
began  to  grin,  the  second  line  the  grin  grew  broad,  and 
shot  from  ear  to  ear.     Then  he    Avould  read  a  line  and 
laugh,  then  another  and  hold  on  to  his  abdomen  and  re- 
mark, "  Haw,  haw,  haw !  "  and  look  up  at  Edric  so  irre- 
sistibly that  he  caught  the  infection  of  the  learned  coun- 
sel.    Finally,  in  instalments,  he  took  it  all  in,  and  poking 
Edric  in  the  ribs,  he  said,  "you  dog,  of  all  lawyers,  you 
do  beat  the  devil."     This  was  superlative  praise. 
"  Then  you  think  it  will  do  ?  " 
"  Do  ?    It  will  be  sure  to  win." 
"  Then  witness  it,  please,  and  I  am  safe." 
With  alternate  writing,  and  spasm  of  the  diaphragm, 
in  laughter,  he  got  it  down  in  a  hand  as  large  as  the 
Irishman  who  wrote  a  letter  to  the  deaf  woman.     There 
it  was. 

"  I  am  obliged  for  your  kindness,"  said  Edric  Lyman. 
"  Call  me  when  you  want  me,  and  receive  the  continued 
assurance  of  my  most  distinguished  consideration."  He 
crossed  School  Street  again  and  was  in  his  office  alone. 


A   CASE  AT   LAW.  301 

When  there  his  face  relaxed  into  a  smile,  he  snapped  his 
eyes  and  said,  "  I  made  the  old  fellow  grin  once." 

On  the  morning  of  Saint  Valentine's  day,  a  large,  rich- 
looking  envelope  lay  on  Edric  Lyman's  desk,  while  be^ 
side  it  was  a  large  sheet  of  legal  paper  done  in  splendid 
writing,  and  colored  inks.  Edric  Lyman  had  been  airino- 

O'  t/  O 

his  penmanship.  On  the  top  were  two  doves,  billing,  in 
the  most  suggestive  manner,  while  down  the  sides  of  the 
sheet  ran  wreaths  of  flowers.  At  the  bottom  was  a  cot- 
tage and  vines  in  green  ink,  and  a  happy  couple  near  the 
door.  Underneath  was  "  Home,  Sweet  Home."  He 
looked  it  over  for  the  last  time  and  examined  the  formi- 
dable-looking seal,  but  did  not  seal  it.  "  There,"  said  he, 
"  I  guess  that  will  do." 

He  touched  the  bell  and  it  brought  the  office  boy. 
The  directions  were  gh'en  and  obeyed,  and  this  messen- 
ger started  on  his  journey. 

It  was  a  —  Lawyer's  Valentine.  Miss  Sarah  Warren 
was  summoned  to  the  door.  It  was  Mr.  Lyman's  office 
young  man.  In  a  stern  voice  he  asked,  "Are  you  Miss 
Sarah  Warren?"  (He  knew  well  enough  she  was,  for  he 
had  carried  her  notes  and  bouquets.) 

"  I  am,  sir." 

"  Then,"  he  said,  solemnly,  "  it  is  my  duty  as  an  officer 
of  the  law  to  serve  this  writ  upon  you.  Please  sign  this 
receipt."  She  was  startled,  but  she  did. 

Here  is  what  she  saw  on  the  great  envelope. 

WRIT  OF  HABEAS  CORPUS  FOR  Miss  SARAH 
WARREN. 

This  was  written  inside. 


302  THE    WILD   ARTIST  IN   BOSTON. 

COMMONWEALTH  OF  MATRIMONY,  Suffolk,  SS. 

To  Cupid,  Esq.,  high  constable  of  the  Court  of  Hymen, 
Greeting :  —  We  command  you,  that  the  body  of  Miss  Sarah 
Warren  of  Boston  by  Mrs.  Farna  Warren  and  Miss  Emily 
Warren  imprisoned,  and  restrained  of  her  liberty,  as  it  is  said, 
you  take  and  have  before  a  minister  of 'the  Court  of  Hymen,  as 
soon  after  the  receipt  of  this  writ  as  she  is  willing  to  go,  to 
show  cause  why  she  should  not  be  married  to  our  beloved 
Edric  Lyman,  and  conform  to  the  mandate  of  said  Court  of 
Hymen.  And  you  will  also  summon  the  said  Mrs.  Parna 
Warren  and  all  other  kin  concerned,  to  show  cause  why  they 
should  detain  the  said  worthy  and  well  beloved  Sarah  Warren, 
any  longer.  And  have  you  there  a  license  from  the  city  clerk 
with  your  doings  thereon. 

Done  at  the  Court  of  Hymen,  on  Saint  Valentine's  day,  in 
the  year  188-.  Hymen,  Judge, 

By  EDRIC  LYMAN,  Attorney  at  law. 

Witness,  JONATHAN  STRONG. 

God  save  the  Commonwealth  of  Matrimony. 

If  you  want  to  describe  Miss  Sarah  Warren's  sensa- 
tions as  she  read  this  screed,  I  can  only  say,  "  she 
thought  she  should  have  died."  But  she  did  not.  It 
was  too  good  to  keep,  Sarah's  valentine  was,  so  before 
long,  her  engagement  was  an  open  secret.  Miss  Sarah 
Warren  is  the  only  .woman  that  I  ever  heard  of  who 
received  an  offer  of  marriage  by  a  writ  of  Habeas 
Corpus.  Plenty  of  people  got  copies  of  it,  and  it  adver- 
tised the  smart  young  lawyer,  no  end. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

A    RAIXY    DAY. 

ROY  BAETLETT  was  prosperous.  First-class  people 
came  to  him  and  gave  him  an  order  for  a  costly  picture, 
upon  condition  that  they  had  an  invitation  to  the  Art 
Coterie.  Tickets  were  issued  and  not  transferable.  His 
pupils  were  many.  Edric  Lyman  gave  him  a  check  for 
fifty  dollars,  and  Roy  painted  one  for  him.  And,  would 
you  believe  it,  Eli  Bertram  did.  •  He  was  grateful.  Roy 
did  not  neglect  his  home  or  his  friends.  Sam  Ellet  got 
a  hearty  letter  as  well  as  Jean  McDuffie,  and  it  came  to 
pass  that  no  interest  was  neglected.  Miss  Graham  was 
in  the  studio  four  or  five  days  in  a  week.  She  sold 
several  pictures,  or  at  least  they  disappeared,  like  Mark 
Twain's  twin  brother. 

It  was  a  rainy,  blowy,  slushy  day.  Miss  Graham  came 
to  the  studio  in  a  carriage,  and  Fred  Annerly  opened  the 
carriage  door.  She  was  dry  and  in  first-class  condition, 
as  she  ran  up  the  steps  to  the  studio. 

"  I  did  not  think  I  should  see  you  to-day,"  said  Roy. 

"Yes,"  she  said:  "Aunty  wanted  something  in  town, 
and  I  could  send  it  back  to  her.  So  I  could  come  as 
well  as  not,  and  I  shall  stay  and  work  awhile." 

No  one  came  in.  It  was  a  still  day.  Roy  asked  if  she 
had  heard  of  Miss  Sarah  Warren's  valentine.  She  had 
heard  of  it  and  seen  it.  It  was  an  open  secret.  It  was 
very  refreshing,  and  very  honorable. 

303 


304  THE   WILD  ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

"  Miss  Warren  was  wealthy,  was  she  not  ?  " 

Roy  said  he  supposed  she  was,  but  he  had  no  idea  that 
a  money  consideration  alone  would  attract  Edric  Lyman. 
He  was  no  fortune-hunter  at  all. 

Said  Roy:  "If  there  is  anything  in  the  world  that  I 
despise,  it  is  a  man  that  hunts  a  woman  for  her  fortune. 
I  shall  marry  a  poor  girl.  I  should  not  have  courage 
enough  to  ask  a  rich  one.  I  had  rather  a  woman  would 
depend  upon  me  for  all,  and  then  she  could  judge 
whether  I  loved  her  or  not,  by  the  way  I  treated  her.  I 
should  try  to  bear  the  most  of  the  burden  and  make  it  as 
easy  for  her,  as  I  possibly  could." 

"  Then  a  poor  girl  would  stand  a  better  chance  with 
you  than  a  rich  one,  Mr.  Bartlett  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  so,"  said  Roy. 

"  That  is  rather  hard  on  the  poor  rich  girl,  is  it  not  ?  " 
asked  Miss  Graham. 

"  Oh,  I  guess  no  rich  girl  will  ever  care  for  me,"  said 
Roy,  "  and  perhaps  no  poor  one  will  either,  although  I 
hope  so." 

"Perhaps  some  one  will,  if  you  only  will  them  to,"  she 
answered. 

"Miss  Graham,  did  you  ever  hear  the  story  of  the 
cork  leg?" 

"  No,  I  never  did.     Please  tell  me." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Roy.  "  It  is  a  still  day.  The  rain 
beats  hard  against  the  window.  Tremont  Street  is  almost 
deserted,  and  we  have  had  good  luck  in  selling  pictures; 
so  we  have  quiet,  and  a  reason  for  a  little  rest.  Now 
please  put  down  your  palette  and  brushes,  and  I  will  tell 
you  an  old  story,  for  too  much  work  is  not  good  for  us. 
This  story  has,  I  think,  been  printed,  but  it  was  told  me 


A   EAINY  DAY.  305 

by  a  friend,  and  I  liked  it  so  well  that  I  filed  it  away  in 
memory,  so  as  to  tell  it  to  some  one  that  I  was  anxious 
to  please." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  she  said. 

Roy  smiled. 

"Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  woman,  and  she  was 
tall  and  fine-looking,  well  dressed,  sensible,  entertaining, 
and  attractive.  Not  the  most  beautiful  in  the  world, 
perhaps,  but  still  a  fine  woman.  It  was  not  so  much  that 
she  was  so  good-looking,  but  she  looked  good,  and  she  was 
good,  and  she  was  an  Irishwoman,  in  society,  living  in 
London.  She  had  plenty  of  followers.  They  talked  with 
her,  and  when  they  came  to  enquire  about  her,  lo,  she  was 
poor.  Her  aunt  gave  her  a  living.  Then  this  admirer 
came  no  more.  A  middle-aged  man  became  acquainted 
with  her,  and  said  he  was  much  interested  in  her,  and 
would  she  tell  him  how  she  was  situated  in  life  ?  She 
frankly  told  him  she  was  dependent  on  her  aunt.  If  she 
had  been  differently  situated,  he  would  have  been  glad 
to  have  said  more.  Then  came  another.  He  did  not 
care  for  her  poverty,  if  she  would  live  within  his  mod- 
erate income.  She  added  also :  there  is  another  thing  I 
must  tell  you,  I  have  a  cork  leg.  Then  he  would  say  no 
more.  But  at  last  there  came  an  earnest,  honest  man, 
who  admired  and  loved  this  beautiful  woman,  if  she  was 
poor  and  a  cripple,  although  she  did  not  show  it,  when 
she  walked.  He  urged  his  suit.  She  told  of  poverty  and 
the  cork  leg.  He  did  not  object.  He  would  do  his  best 
to  love  and  serve  her,  in  spite  of  poverty  and  misfortune. 
Would  she  marry  him?  She  would;  and  the  day  was 
fixed.  They  had  a  quiet  wedding  at  her  aunt's  house. 
He  had  offered  her  money,  but  no,  thanks  to  the  liberality 


306  THE   WILD   ARTIST  IN   BOSTON. 

of  her  aunt,  she  had  enough  for  the  present.  When  the 
wedding  was  over,  she  said  she  was  glad  to  tell  him  that 
things  were  better  with  her  than  they  had  appeared  to  be. 
She  said  she  was  poor  yesterday,  but  her  aunt  had  held  a 
large  amount  of  property,  which  she  had  conveyed  to  her 
to-day.  She  told  her  husband  that  she  was  glad  and 
happy  to  be  married  for  herself  alone.  She  was  glad  to 
tell  him  she  was  rich,  and  out  of  all  danger  of  fortune- 
hunters.  And  about  the  cork  leg,  she  said,  I  shall  have 
to  tell  you  that  I  have  two  cork  legs.  I  was  born  in  Cork. 

And  this  splendid  husband,  so  loyal  and  rare, 
Was  glad  that  his  wife  was  so  perfect  and  fair ; 
All  the  love  and  the  wealth  that  to  her  he  had  given 
Came  gloriously  back,  with  the  blessing  of  heaven ; 
•Ever  so  may  they  come  from  the  powers  above 
To  the  man  who  gives  all  for  a  true  woman's  love." 

Roy  waited  a  moment. 

She  said,  "  Thank  you,  sir."  After  a  pause  she  asked, 
"Is  marriage  the  highest  ideal  of  life?" 

O  ~ 

He  answered :  "  To  me  it  is,  and  the  only  one.  Of 
course  there  may  be  reasonable  excuses,  but  Tupper  says, 
'  Marriage  is  a  duty  to  most  men.'  I  have  no  doubt  about 
it.  It  is  to  nearly  all,  and  women  too.  I  never,  for  a 
moment,  contemplated  a  single  life.  When  I  see  my 
own  father  and  mother,  and  your  uncle  and  aunt,  I  am 
satisfied  that  such  marriage  is  beyond  all  price.  Does  it 
not  seem  so  to  you,  Miss  Graham  ?  " 

"Yes,  Mr.  Bartlett,  where  good  people  marry  intelli- 
gently, for  love,  it  ought  always  to  be  the  highest  joy." 

Said  Roy :  "  Sometime  I  wish  you  would  take  that 
volume  of  Tupper's  Proverbial  Philosophy  that  lies  upon 
that  old  sideboard,  beside  the  Milton,  Montgomery, 


A   RAINY  DAY.  307 

Burns,  Shakespeare,  and  the  Bible.  It  has  Hammatt  Bil- 
lings' autograph  on  the  first  leaf,  and  is  out  of  Titcomb's 
library.  Find  the  article  on  marriage.  It  is  the  best  I 
know  in  the  English  language.  I  do  not  see  how  it  can 
be  better." 

She  said  she  would  read  it. 

Roy  said :  "  A  little  later,  I  hope  to  be  better  situated 
financially,  so  I  can  be  sure  of  a  moderate  income  if  I 
get  disabled.  Then  I  shall  consider  it." 

"  I  should  think  your  father  and  mother  were  very 
pleasantly  situated,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  they  are.  They  are  content.  They  have  enough, 
and  as  good  as  they  wish.  They  prefer  to  work,  to  help 
each  other,  and  they  like  to  have  a  good,  productive  farm. 
They  help  many,  and  harm  none.  I  do  not  see  how  they 
can  do  better.  I  cannot  see  why  my  parents  do  not  live 
free  from  wrong-doing.  They  try  to.  My  father  does 
not  care  at  all  for  liquors,  and  he  never  used  tobacco. 
Of  course,  plenty  of  good  people  do  use  it,  but  I  think 
they  would  admit,  that  they  would  be  whiter  and  cleaner 
without  it.  I  never  use  it,  and  I  am  glad  I  was  prevented 
from  using  it." 

"  What  prevented  you,  please  ?  " 

Roy  stopped,  and  appeared  to  muse  and  think.  She 
waited.  He  turned,  and  looked  steadily  at  her.  "  I  have 
never  told  it,"  said  he ;  "but  if  you  will  keep  it  for  your- 
self alone,  I  will  tell  you.  When  I  came  to  Boston,  about 
four  years  ago,  it  was  Monday.  On  the  Saturday  before, 
we  were  picking  apples  in  the  orchard.  There  was  no 
one  in  the  house  but  mother.  I  had  not  been  gone  out 
long  when  I  thought  I  would  go  in  for  a  pitcher  of  water. 
When  I  came  to  the  door,  I  heard  my  mother's  low,  but 


308  THE   WILD  ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

most  earnest  voice  in  prayer.  And  this  was  the  burden 
of  her  prayer:  'O  Lord,  keep  my  boy  from  liquor  and 
tobacco.  Keep  him  clean  and  white,  as  he  is  now.  O 
Lord,  thou  hast  promised  to  answer  prayer.  I  claim  it 
now.  I  will  never  cease  to  claim  it.  O  Lord  Jesus,  keep 
my  boy  pure  and  clean  from  liquor  and  tobacco.'  Again 
and  again  she  begged  for  me.  She  does  not  know  I 
heard  her.  And  I  made  up  my  mind,  that  it  should  be 
the  joy  of  my  life  to  answer  my  mother's  prayer.  I  do 
not  use  liquors,  I  never  touch  tobacco,  and  I  never  will. 
It  is  not  self-denial  at  all.  It  would  be  self-denial  to  use 
them.  I  would  not  be  hired  to  defile  my  lips  with 
tobacco.  You  have  my  secret." 

"  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Bartlett.  I  think  you  will  find  I 
can  keep  a  secret,  even  if  you  had  not  asked  it.  It  is  re- 
freshing what  people  there  are  in  the  world,  when  you 
know  them." 

"  Thank  you,  Miss  Graham.  Few  people  ever  know  what 
it  is  to  be  loved  as  my  parents  love  me.  It  is  not  to  be 
spoken  of  to  every  one.  It  is  too  sacred.  Let  me  show 
you  something,  Miss  Graham.  Here  is  this  large  row  of 
books.  The  Bible  my  parents  gave  me  is  here.  Let  me 
show  you  what  is  written  in  it.  Here  it  is : " 

"  TO  ROY. 

"My  son,  I  wish  you,  while  you  live, 
The  highest  good  this  life  can  give : 
So  read  this  book,  for  thus  you  may 
Learn  of  the  straight  and  narrow  way. 
And  peace  shall  all  your  life  attend, 
With  Christ,  your  Saviour  and  your  friend. 
"  Your  father,  GUY  BARTLETT." 


A   RAINY    DAY.  309 

"My  son,  your  mother's  love  and  care, 
Your  mother's  hope,  your  mother's  prayer 
Are  all,  that  Christ  shall  be  your  joy; 
That  he  shall  own  and  bless  my  boy  — 
For  present  peace,  for  future  bliss, 
My  son,  there  is  no  way  but  this. 

"  Your  mother,  MARIAN  ROYAL  BARTLETT." 

"  We  join  to  wish  you,  while  you  live, 
The  highest  joy  this  life  can  give ; 
And  when  its  joys  and  griefs  are  past, 
We  all  may  meet  in  heaven  at  last  — 
No  more  of  sorrow,  care,  or  fear :  — 
So  may  it  be,  God  bless  you,  dear. 

"  GUY  BARTLETT. 

"MARIAN  ROYAL  BARTLETT." 

Miss  Graham  read  it  with  strong  feeling,  for  it  was 
like  her  own  parents,  and  she  was  an  orphan.  A  tear  fell 
down  and  moistened  the  page.  She  said,  "  O  I  am  so 
sorry  to  blot  the  page." 

"Never  mind,"  said  he.  "It  is  all  the  more  sacred  to 
me.  There  are  many  people  who  would  think  lightly  of 
such  an  expression  as  is  here  written.  For  their  opinion 
I  do  not  c5re.  When  the  Master  asked  Simon,  son  of 
Jonas,  'Lovest  tliou  me?'  he  wanted  Simon  to  both  say 
he  loved  him,  and  to  show  that  he  loved  him.  And  so 
do  I.  The  love  that  never  finds  expression,  is  worse  than 
the  deaf  and  dumb  alphabet  of  signs.  Canis  Major  tells 
me  he  loves  me  in  every  wag  of  his  tail.  If  I  had  a  dog 
that  never  told  his  love  to  me,  by  a  loving  look  or  a  wag- 
ging tail,  I  should  appoint  his  successor.  I  like  this 
beautiful  stanza  — 

"  '  Love  is  the  golden  chain  that  binds 

The  happy  souls  above. 
He  is  an  heir  of  heaven  who  finds 
His  bosom  g-low  with  love.1 


310  THE  WILD  AKTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

"  Now  I  do  not  mean  that  love  should  be  limited  to  a 
man  and  a  woman,  or  to  relatives  only.  I  like  the  way 
Edric  Lyman  treats  me ;  and  Sam  Ellet,  and  Jean 
McDuffie,  and  the  man  and  his  wife  who  called  me  bad 
names,  and  Jonathan  Strong;  and  your  uncle  and  aunt, 
and  Fred  Annerly  and  his  wife  also,  if  they  are  tinted 
Americans.  He  seems  to  be  a  kind,  sensible  gentleman." 

"  You  never  said  a  truer  word,"  said  Miss  Graham. 
"  He  is  a  part  of  the  estate,  and  his  wife  also." 

Said  Roy,  "  It  is  duty,  pleasure,  philosophy,  common 
sense,  and  religion  all  in  one,  to  put  as  much  love  and 
good  will  into  our  lives,  as  we  can.  For  surely  life  is  a 
tragedy.  It  begins  with  a  cry  of  pain,  and  ends  with  a 
dying  groan.  But  O,  what  growth,  what  love,  what 
hope,  amusement,  cultivation,  beauty,  art,  literature, 
music,  song,  what  fun  even,  lie  between  the  coming  and 
the  going.  Some  one  addressed  a  new-born  soul  thus : 
'  O  little  one  that  comest  into  this  life,  while  all  around 
you  smile,  so  live  that  thou  rnayest  go  up  into  the  higher, 
holier  life,  while  all  around  you  weep.'  These  are  great 
thoughts,  and  they  tend  upward.  So  every  time  I  think 
of  what  my  parents  wrote  in  my  Bible,  I  rejoice,  and  my 
heart  is  full  of  love  and  loyalty  to  them." 

"  I  am  glad,"  said  Miss  Graham. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.     It  was  the  janitor. 

"  Mr.  Bartlett,  have  you  any  influence  with  Frank 
Wilkie?  He  is  two  months  behind  on  his  rent,  and  I 
must  make  him  move.  He  is  drunk  all  the  time." 

"  I  do  hot  know,  Mr.  Janitor,  whether  I  have  or  not. 
I  will  go  and  try.  Please  make  no  move  until  I  see  what 
I  can  do." 

"All  right,  Mr.  Bartlett.     I  will  look  in  to-morrow." 


A  EAINY  DAY.  311 

Roy  took  a  long  breath  and  said,  "  Now  I  will  go  and 
see  what  can  be  done  for  Frank  Wilkie." 

Roy  went  up  to  the  top  of  the  building,  and  knocked 
on  Frank  Wilkie's  door.  Xo  answer.  He  heard  just  the 
least  noise  within,  and  was  just  sure  he  was  there. 

Then  he  spoke  and  called,"  "Mr.  Wilkie,  Mr.  Wilkie,  a 
friend  wishes  to  see  you.  It  is  Mr.  Bartlett." 

There  was  a  stir,  and  he  came  to  the  door,  which  he 
slowly  unfastened. 

"  I  want  to  see  you,"  said  Roy,  "  you  need  help." 

"  Come  in,"  said  he. 

Said  Roy,  "The  janitor  asked  me  if  I  had  any  influ- 
ence with  you.  He  said  you  owe  two  months'  rent,  and 
he  is  responsible  to  the  owner." 

Wilkie  sat  down  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 
His  room  was  a  lair.  Behind  a  screen  was  an  old  lounge, 
which  was  his  bed.  He  did  not  take  off  his  clothes  at 
night.  There  were  no  pictures  of  any  account  in  the 
room.  It  was  dusty,  forsaken,  and  mean,  and  the  man 
was  the  meanest  thing  in  it.  There  was  a  choking  odor 
of  stale  tobacco  smoke,  Avhich,  with  an  unclean  man,  who 
was  saturated  with  beer  and  whiskey,  right  in  the  middle 
of  it,  made  it  a  sight  over  which  angels  might  weep.  It 
is  lucky  that  a  woman  never  does  such  a  trick.  Ten  men 
do  it,  where  one  woman  does.  Yes  and  more.  Ten 
times  more,  I  guess.  Right  in  the  midst  of  it  sat  Frank 
Wilkie.  He  sat  down  as  soon  as  Roy  came  in.  He  did 
not  reply  for  some  time.  He  was  dirty,  suffering, 
wretched,  ashamed,  and  partly  drunk. 

Roy  said  again,  "  Mr.  Wilkie,  you  need  help.  I  will 
pay  one  month's  rent  for  you,  if  you  will  let  drink  alone, 
and  go  to  work.  If  you  do  not,  your  things  will  be  put 


312  THE   WILD  ARTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

into  the  street  to-morrow.  I  will  help  you.  Will  you 
try?" 

Wilkie  trembled  and  said,  "Yes,  I  will  try  again,  I 
promise  it." 

"Then,"  said  Roy,  "I  will  open  the  window  and  door 
a  little,  so  I  can  breathe,  and  I  will  send  out  and  get  you 
some  coffee  and  biscuits,  and  will  you  sweep  up  and 
arrange  your  room  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  will.  I  would  go  to  the  river  and  jump  in  to 
drown  myself,  but  I  can  swim  like  a  duck,  drunk  or  sober, 
so  that  is  no  use." 

When  Roy  came  back  he  brought  a  can  of  hot  and 
strong  coffee,  from  the  Oriental  tea  store,  and  a  loaf  of 
graham  bread  and  a  piece  of  butter. 

"There,"  said  he,  "that  is  good  for  you  to  sober  off 
with.  Now  what  colors  do  you  lack  ?  " 

Roy  looked  in  his  color  box,  and  it  was  lean  indeed. 
He  went  downstairs  to  his  own  room,  and  got  canvases, 
and  a  dozen  tubes  of  paint. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Wilkie,  go  to  work.  It  will  steady  you  as 
much  as  anything.  Paint  this  waterfall  and  make  it  good 
enough  for  me  to  keep."  He  promised  he  would,  only  he 
wanted  a  bit  of  fresh  air.  "  I  want  to  go  out.  As  soon  as 
I  brush  myself  up,  and  walk  around  the  Common,  I  will 
return  and  work  for  you,  all  day." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Roy.  "  I  will  look  in  again  by  and 
by,  and  I  will  get  your  supper." 

Wilkie  locked  the  door  and  they  went  downstairs  to- 
gether. Roy  met  another  artist  at  his  door,  a  sharp, 
witty  one,  who  is  always  saying  something  brilliant. 
Wilkie  kept  on  with  a  downcast  look,  but  his  wretched- 
ness was  apparent. 


A  EAINY  DAY.  313 

Says  the  artist,  "I  do  like  to  see  a  man  enjoy  himself." 

Roy  had  to  smile  at  such  an  absurdity.  Wilkie  soon 
returned  and  went  to  work  faithfully.  Roy  paid  a 
month's  rent,  only  ten  dollars,  and  bought  pictures  of 
him,  which  he  did  not  want,  to  get  his  mone\  back. 
Frank  Wilkie  got  upon  his  feet  again.  He  might  have 
made  from  one  to  three  thousand  a  year,  if  he  had  been 
the  man  that  Royal  Bartlett  was.  li  is  more  in  the  man 
than  it  is  in  the  business,  usually. 

Miss  Graham  tendered  a  five-dollar  bill  to  help  pay 
Frank  Wilkie's  rent,  but  Roy  declined  it.  He  said,  "  a 
woman's  money  comes  harder  than  a  man's,  and  he  should 
feel  happier  to  know  that  she  was  saving  hers,  so  that 
she  might  be  well  provided  for,  in  case  of  misfortune." 

She  laughed  a  merry  laugh,  and  said,  "she  hoped  she 
should  not  be  so  disabled  that  her  music  or  her  art  would 
not  give  her  a  living." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

THE    GBEAT    ENGLISHMAN. 

ROY  BARTLETT'S  studio  door  had  for  three  days  past 
borne  this  notice,  — 

ART  COTERIE,  THURSDAY  EVE  AT  8. 
SHAKESPEARE  AND  ENGLISH  NIGHT. 

The  company  was  a  rich  one.  The  curtain  concealed 
the  rear  end  of  the  great  double  parlors,  and  was  an  in- 
terrogation point  of  great  suggestiveness. 

Roy  Bartlett  announced,  "  Ladies  and  gentlemen  :  We 
vary  our  programme  to  suit  ourselves.  The  first  thing 
this  evening  is  a  new  song  to  an  old  tune.  It  is  a  rattling 
college  song.  '  Vive  la  Compagnie.'  Only  one  stanza  is 
to  be  sung  by  one  person,  and  only  that  person,  and  one 
other,  knows  the  one  stanza  which  he  is  going  to  sing. 
We  hope  you  will  all  sing  big  on  the  responses,  and  jump 
on  when  the  chorus  comes  around.  Miss  Sarah  Warren 
will  preside  at  the  drum  and  Miss  Graham  at  the  piano." 

She  played  it  through  with  variations  and  queer  little 
capers.  The  lines  were  sung  solo,  and  the  refrain  and 
chorus  by  all.  But  the  way  that  drum  came  in,  mark- 
ing the  time,  right  on  the  dot,  and  with  a  judicious  roll 
on  the  chorus,  was  very  exhilarating.  There  were  no 
critics  there,  so  I  leave  you  to  judge  whether  it  was  fun 


or  not.     Here  is  the  song,  — 


314 


THE   GREAT   ENGLISHMAN1.  315 

Sung  by  Miss  Emily  Warren. 

O  welcome,  dear  friends,  with  the  sunshine  you  bring. 

Vive  la  compagnie. 
We  welcome  you  here  to  be  happy  and  sing, 

Vive  la  compagnie. 

CHORUS  — Vive  la,  vive  la,  vive  Famour, 
Vive  la,  vive  la,  vive  Famour, 
Vive  Famour,  vive  1'amour, 
Vive  la  compagnie. 

Sung  by  Miss  Graham. 

This  life  is  a  blessing  so  pleasant  and  long, 

Vive  la  compagnie. 
With  love  and  good  company,  music  and  song, 

Vive  la  compagnie. 
CHORUS  —  Vive  la,  etc. 

Sung  by  Roy  Bartlett. 

When  a  splendid  young  lawyer  has  fallen  in  love, 

Vive  la  compagnie, 
It  is  time  to  give  thanks  to  the  powers  above, 

Vive  la  compagnie. 
CHORUS  —  Vive  la,  etc. 

Sung  by  Edric  Lyman. 

When  a  rising  young  artist  is  well  known  to  fame, 

Vive  la  compagnie, 
It  is  just  about  time  he  Was  doing  the  same, 

Vive  la  compagnie. 
CHORUS  —  Vive  la,  etc. 

Sung  by  Mr.  Stacy. 

Hurrah  for  sweet  Cupid,  and  may  he  live  long, 

Vive  la  compagnie, 
Hurrah  for  old  Hymen,  so  wise  and  so  strong, 

Vive  la  compagnie. 
CHORUS  —  Vive  la,  etc. 


316  THE  WILD  AETIST  IN  BOSTON. 

Sung  by  one  of  the  members. 
May  the  blessing  of  heaven  crown  every  glad  year, 

Vive  la  compagnie, 
For  our  hostess  so  kind,  who  has  gathered  us  here, 

Vive  la  compagnie. 
CHORUS  —  Vive  la,  etc. 

By  the  young  man  who  told  the  capital-punishment  story. 

Now  a  blessing,  a  cheer,  and  good  luck  to  you  all, 

Vive  la  compagnie, 
So  says  every  one  of  us,  so  say  we  all, 

Vive  la  compagnie. 
CHORUS  —  Vive  la,  etc. 

There  was  a  spice  of  mischief  in  the  song,  but  they 
knew  how  to  take  a  joke,  and  it  went  well.  It  was  a 
roaring  chorus.  Then  Roy  announced  that  they  would 
listen  to  Mr.  Edric  Lyman.  He  spoke  almost  without 
notes.  Yet  a  few  heads  of  subjects,  numbered,  and  well 
arranged,  he  held  in  his  hand,  and  taking  his  story  easily, 
and  hardly  making  a  set  speech,  or  argument  of  it,  he 
began,  — 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  if  you  were  asked  to  give 
the  first  name  in  English  literature,  for  all  the  past,  you 
would  all,  undoubtedly,  unite  upon  Shakespeare.  And 
the  questions,  Who  was  he  ?  what  did  he  do  ?  and  what 
is  it  worth  ?  are  questions  of  interest  to  all  thinking  men 
and  women.  Lately,  these  questions  also  involve  the 
same  questions  concerning  Sir  Francis  Bacon.  I  have 
no  theory  to  prove  as  barrister,  but  I  have  a  verdict  as 
juryman.  I  have  read  Shakespeare  well,  have  been  in 
clubs  for  his  study,  have  heard  readings  and  recitations 
many,  have  heard  and  seen  his  plays  on  the  stage,  and 
have  read  about  fifty  volumes  of  his  critics.  What  I 


THE   GREAT   ENGLISHMAN.  317 

have  to  present  to  you  is  not  intended  as  an  argument,  to 
compel  you  to  my  way  of  thinking,  but  as  a  slight  sum- 
mary of  the  result  of  all  I  ever  heard  or  read  of  Shakes- 
peare. You  can  think  what  you  please  of  it.  More 
than  three  hundred  years  ago  he  was  born.  More  than 
two  hundred  and  fifty  he  died.  He  was  thoroughly 
English,  of  the  great  middle  class,  that  own  property  and 
do  business.  He  and  his  ancestors  were  all  Roman  Cath- 
olics. Now,  and  here,  let  me  say,  that  of  all  the  critical 
books  upon  Shakespeare,  not  one  stands  so  high  in  my 
estimation  as  '  Shakespeare,  from  an  American  point  of 
view,'  by  George  Wilkes.  To  be  a  Protestant,  in  that 
age,  meant  that  a  man  protested  against  the  customs  of 
the  old  faith,  because  he  found  the  new  faith  a  higher  and 
purer  one.  Consequently  Puritans  were  moral  and  relig- 
ious men,  while  easy-going  Catholics  might  be  moral  or 
not.  Charlecote  Hall  was  a  noble  manorial  residence, 
then  and  now.  I  have  a  picture  of  it.  It  was  the 
residence  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  knight,  and  member  of 
parliament.  It  was  a  spirited  thing  to  do,  to  steal  a  deer 
of  Sir  Thomas,  and  a  dangerous,  as  well.  There  was  an 
added  flavor  in  the  fact  that  Sir  Thomas  was  a  Puritan,  a 
Protestant.  I  have  heard  old  fellows  tell  of  their  exploits 
in  stealing  watermelons,  but  I  never  thought  any  more  of 
them  for  it.  Indeed,  I  think  decidedly  more  of  the  man 
that  never  was  a  thief.  Still  it  must  be  remembered  that 
these  were  easy-going  times.  Sir  Thomas  had  it  all  his 
own  way,  being  a  magistrate,  and  young  Shakespeare 
was  fined  and  whipped.  It  also  must  be  remembered 
that  Lucy's  game,  his  deer,  in  his  park,  were  as  much  his 
cattle  as  his  cows.  It  is  a  big  crime  in  England  to-day 
to  steal  a  deer.  No  wonder  William  got  himself  into 


318  THE  WILD   ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

trouble.  The  name  Lowsie  Lucy  was  a  spite.  But  you 
cannot  prove  anything  against  Lucy  as  an  honest,  good 
man. 

"It  did  not  hurt  Shakespeare's  conscience,  for  he  never 
had  much.  He  was  a  good-sized,  auburn-haired  man, 
gentle  and  pleasant  in  his  ways,  when  he  left  his  wife  and 
three  children,  and  relieved  Sir  Thomas  Lucy's  jurisdic- 
tion of  a  poacher  by  going  to  London.  Perhaps  Shakes- 
peare's family  needed  the  meat  to  eat.  He  liked  the 
stage,  and  took  to  the  theatre.  The  Puritan  element  and 
the  theatre  element  were  a  long  way  farther  apart  then 
than  to-day.  Now  the  stage  is  purer  and  better,  and  the 
Puritan  is  not  so  particular.  If  he  wrote  the  plays  and 
poems  that  common-sense  gives  him  credit  for,  he  knew 
the  flavor  of  sin,  and  liked  it.  If  he  wrote  a  few  verses, 
even  the  lampoon  of  Lowsie  Lucy,  before  he  was  twenty, 
then  later  and  often  he  wrote  more  and  better.  It  is  a 
natural  sequence,  as  many  artists  and  others  know.  Who 
is  it  that  says,  — 

"'  'Tis  true,  what  eveiy  poet  knows, 
Dull  souls  shall  always  think  in  prose ; 
But  whose  rapt  soul  hath  numbers  given 
Shall  sing  them  both  in  earth  and  heaven '  ? 

"  It  is  said  that  he  taught  school.  School-teachers  are 
usually  sharp.  They  see  so  much  dulness,  that  they  hate 
it,  and  put  themselves  far  from  it.  This  helps  Shakes- 
peare again.  He  wrote  the  sonnets,  '  Venus  and  Adonis,' 
and  the  '  Rape  of  Lucrece.'  These  would  take  a  higher 
order  of  talent  than  any  of  his  plays.  The  poet  outranks 
the  prose  writer,  as  the  sculptor  outranks  the  brick  and 
stone  layer.  The  prose  of  the  ancients  is  lost.  The 


THE  GREAT   ENGLISHMAN.  319 

poetry  lives.  That  Shakespeare  wrote  these  poems  is 
undisputed.  It  is  a  higher  order  of  talent  to  write  good 
poems  that  shall  live,  than  good  plays,  that  may  or  may 
not  live.  What  countless  cartloads  of  plays  have  been 
written,  and  are  gone  forever.  But  Shakespeare  wrote 
history  in  plays,  and  they  live.  He  is  compiled  and 
illustrated  more  than  all.  There  are  plenty  of  as  good 
plays  as  ever  he  wrote.  The  old  English  comedies, 
'  School  for  Scandal,'  '  London  Assurance,'  and  the  like. 
That  he  had  a  large  vocabulary,  and  the  gift  of  expression 
in  the  highest  degree,  no  one  disputes.  He  said  things 
elegantly  and  refreshingly.  He  was  a  master  stagewright 
too.  He  pleased  his  sovereign  and  the  nobility.  He 
made  friends,  and  he  made  money.  Best  of  all,  he  knew 
the  value  of  money,  and  how  to  keep  it ;  and  how  to  keep 
himself  respectable.  A  man  or  woman  that  cannot  keep 
a  secret,  or  a  dollar,  is  despicable  indeed.  The  man  with 
the  one  talent,  that  could  not  navigate  that  to  advantage, 
had  it  taken  from  him,  and  he  was  thrust  out.  So  will  it 
ever  be. 

"How  easy  it  would  have  been  for  Shakespeare,  in 
those  drinking  days,  to  have  fooled  away  every  penny  as 
fast  as  he  got  it,  and  have  effectually  prevented  any 
accumulation.  Many  theatrical  people  do.  He  was  in  a 
place  of  supreme  temptation,  and  he  saved  his  money, 
supported  his  family,  bought  real  estate,  and  got  rich. 
He  ennobled  the  stage.  He  ennobled  himself.  Bad  as 
his  themes  were,  the  theatre  began  to  be  a  better  enter- 
tainment. Do  you  ask  me  what  I  object  to  in  Shakes- 
peare ?  He  was  in  and  of  his  age.  There  was  a  spirit 
of  protest  against  the  ancient  looseness  of  speech  and 
life,  among  the  Protestants.  It  wrought  slowly  upon  the 


320  THE   WILD  ARTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

stage.  What  immoral  people  some  of  his  characters 
are.  If  drawn  from  life,  they  were  no  less  unpresentable. 
He  wrote  to  please,  never  to  instruct.  He  wrote  without 
any  moral  purpose  whatever.  He  almost  always  bowed 
down  to  priests,  friars,  and  nuns,  and  he  spoke  of  Romish 
ordinances  with  deep  respect.  He  made  a  martext  of 
every  Protestant  in  his  play.  He  treated  a  Jew  as  they 
have  always  been  treated  in  the  Ghetto  at  Rome.  In  his 
'Merchant  of  Venice,'  his  Jew,  Shylock,  is  really  the  best 
man  in  the  play.  He  makes  his  self-styled  gentlemen  to 
spit  upon  him,  to  cheat  and  swindle  him  without  stint,  and 
to  ruin  him.  No  wonder  a  Jew  hates  such  Christians. 
Anybody  would.  No  wonder  he  wants  a  pound  of  their 
flesh.  I  should,  and  more.  The  Jews  are  the  great  nation 
of  the  olden  time.  They  have  always  been  an  educated 
people,  loyal  and  true  to  their  history,  their  faith  in  God, 
and  their  Hebrew  nation ;  and  if  Jesus  Christ  is  my  Lord, 
my  hope,  and  my  Redeemer,  he  will  be  glad  to  have  me 
honor  his  ancient  nation,  and  think  justly  and  kindly  of 
his  people.  And  I  do.  What  abuse  did  ever  Shakes- 
peare condemn  ? 

"  Dickens  was  always  fighting  some  ancient  wrong. 
Now  it  was  the  chancery  court,  now  imprisonment  for 
debt,  now  the  law's  delay,  now  the  tyrannical  schools, 
now  the  rapacity  of  lawyers,  now  the  shiftlessness  of  in- 
efficiency, now  self-righteousness  and  pomposity,  and  all 
the  time  he  did  amuse,  he  did  instruct,  and  he  did  point 
the  road  to  a  better  way.  When  her  Majesty,  a  woman 
who  is  a  legal,  rightful  ruler,  and  is,  by  the  grace  of  God, 
loyally  anchored  in  the  hearts  and  pockets  of  all  true 
Britons,  when  she  sent  for  him  to  read, before  hei-,  at 
Windsor  Castle,  he  declined  to  go  as  a  reader,  where  he 


THE   GREAT   ENGLISHMAN.  321 

would  not  be  admitted  as  a  gentleman.  He  showed  his 
right  as  a  free  Englishman.  But  I  am  sorry  he  did  it. 
Even  sovereigns  are  entitled  to  some  consideration. 
Especially  so  in  the  United  States,  where  no  man  can  tell 
how  soon  he  will  be  called  to  be  sovereign  himself.  But 
Shakespeare  was  always,  in  every  play,  ready  to  do  fool- 
ish homage  to  a  king  and  to  insult  the  hedge-born,  com- 
mon people,  of  which  he  was  one.  It  is  painful.  But 
Shakespeare  was  an  agreeable  man,  handsome,  with  win- 
ning ways,  a  fine  poet,  a  master  of  expression,  a  first-class 
stage  manager  and  playwright,  a  well  read,  well  educated 
man.  Many  men  are  well  educated  without  a  college 
diploma.  All  this  in  one  is  very,  very  rare.  There  are 
in  literature  about  three  hundred  allusions  to  him,  by 
contemporary  writers.  All  of  them  speak  of  him  with 
honor,  with  scarce  an  exception.  They  speak  of  him  as 
'The  sweet  swan  of  Avon,'  'Gentle  Shakespeare,'  and 
other  endearing  names. 

"  About  thirty  years  he  lived  in  London,  sometimes 
coming  home  to  Stratford-on-Avon,  a  journey  of  about 
ninety  miles.  It  is  a  pity  that  the  great  fire  in  London 
and  other  fires  have  burnt  up  all  his  plays,  so  that  not  a 
line  survives.  Only  five  poor  signatures  are  left.  Thank 
Heaven,  his  tomb  remains,  although  if  the  rascally  cre- 
mationists  had  lived  then,  we  might  not  have  had  even 
that.  For  two  hundred  and  forty  years  after  he  died, 
wealthy  and  honored,  his  right  to  his  own  work  was 
undisputed. 

"Then  Miss  Delia  Bacon  wrote  a  book  to  prove  that  all 
Shakespeare's  Roman  Catholic  flavored  plays  were  writ- 
ten by  Francis  Bacon,  a  Protestant,  a  man  through  whose 
influence,  largely,  it  was  that  Queen  Elizabeth  cut  off  the 


322  THE  WILD  AKTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

Roman  Catholic  head  of  poor  Mary  Stuart.  Emerson 
gave  Miss  Bacon  a  letter  of  introduction  to  Carlyle.  He 
wrote  back,  '  Oh,  Emerson,  your  woman  is  mad.'  An 
exhaustive  statement.  She  died  in  an  asylum.  But  says 
some  one,  Lord  Palmerston  is  said  to  have  thought  that 
Bacon  wrote  Shakespeare's  plays  for  him.  Think  what 
you  like.  I  do  not  believe  it.  Pope  spoke  of  Bacon  as 
'  the  wisest,  brightest,  meanest  of  mankind.'  He  was 
just  about  such  a  Protestant  in  theory,  as  Shakespeare 
was  a  Catholic  in  practice. 

"  Shakespeare  wrote  '  Romeo  and  Juliet,'  also  '  Troilus 
and  Cressida,'  'Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,'  and  others. 
These  were  lushy  love  stones.  That  was  just  like 
Shakespeare.  He  was  married  and  had  three  children  at 
twenty.  It  was  his  characteristic  through  life.  Francis 
Bacon,  Lord  Verulam,  was  married  at  forty-six  and  had 
no  children.  Any  'Romeo  and  Juliet'  about  that? 
Bacon  took  a  dose  of  nitre,  a  strong  diuretic,  every  morn- 
ing for  the  last  thirty  years  of  his  life,  and  was  dosing 
himself  continually  otherwise.  Any  '  Merry  Wives  of 
Windsor' about  that?  Not  much.  It  never  lay  in  his 
body  or  soul,  to  write  the  virile  plays  that  Shakespeare 
wrote. 

"  Printer's  ink  did  not  flow  as  easy  then  as  now,  yet 
Francis  Bacon's  works  were  much  in  print.  His  income 
allowed  it.  He  is  described  as  of  medium  height,  of  a 
pleasing,  open,  and  venerable  appearance.  With  all  his 
philosophy,  he  had  plenty  of  superstitions,  and  very  fool- 
ish ones.  He  was  subject  to  certain  epileptic  or  fainting 
fits,  at  certain  times  of  the  moon. 

"  Epileptics  are  not  very  fertile.  Shakespeare  was 
blond,  winning,  true,  and,  with  all  he  has  written,  not 


THE  GREAT  ENGLISHMAN.  323 

egotistical.  Bacon  was  a  sublime  egotist,  and  cold- 
blooded as  a  snake.  Please  notice  the  high-sounding 
titles  of  his  works.  The  first  was  '  The  Greatest  Birth  of 
Time.'  Could  anything  be  more  grandiloquent !  And  yet 
that  book,  written  by  a  man  with  abundant  means,  who 
married  a  rich  wife,  a  London  alderman's  daughter,  — 
that  book  is  lost,  and  there  is  not  a  copy  in  all  the  world. 
You  can  draw  an  inference.  His  next  work  is  'The 
Grand  Instauration  of  the  Sciences.'  Here  let  me  ask,  is 
there  any  person  present  that  can  repeat  a  few  lines  from 
Bacon's  works  ?  No  one  answered.  What !  not  a  bit  of 
Bacon  in  all  this  company?  And  yet,  some  pretend  that 
he  wrote  Shakespeare.  What  infernal  folly." 

Then  they  laughed. 

"  Notice  how  Bacon  begins  his  '  Great  Instauration.' 
*  Francis  of  Verulam  thought  thus,  and  such  is  the 
method  which  he  determined  within  himself,  and  which 
he  thought  it  concerned  the  living  and  posterity  to  know.' 

"  Posterity  is  full  of  Will  Shakespeare,  but  it  does  not 
distress  itself  about  Frank  Bacon.  The  Earl  of  Essex 
was  Bacon's  friend  and  helper,  until  Bacon  became  Lord 
Chancellor  of  England.  Bacon  repaid  his  noble  benefac- 
tor, by  bringing  him  to  public  execution.  I  respect 
Shakespeare,  I  do  not  respect  Bacon.  Bacon  wrote  one 
or  two  plays,  to  be  acted  before  Queen  Elizabeth.  But 
they  were  so  full  of  adulation  and  soft-sawder  that  they 
are  as  dead  as  the  Pharaohs.  Bacon's  books  do  not  con- 
tain one  bright  saying,  Avhich  is  quoted  and  ascribed  to 
him.  But  Shakespeare  has  done  more  to  improve  the 
English  language  than  any  man  that  ever  lived.  What 
expressions,  what  '  elegies,  and  quoted  odes,  and  jewels, 
five  words  long,  that  on  the  stretched  forefinger  of  all 


324  THE   WILD   ARTIST  IN   BOSTON. 

time  sparkle  forever.'  Truly  he  is  not  '  of  an  age,  but 
for  all  time.'  Bacon's  wife  survived  him  twenty  years. 
She  had  no  children.  Like  Hannah  Partridge,  which 

O     f 

dear  old  Mrs.  Vincent  acted,  she  never  had  the  chance. 

"I  cannot  stop  to  quote  Bacon.  He  is  as  dry  as  dust. 
His  philosophy  is  mental,  often  obscure,  oftener  fanciful, 
frequently  only  partially  true,  and  often  false  altogether. 
His  style  of  mind  is  as  much  like  Shakespeare  as  Thomas 
Dick  is  like  Lord  Byron.  Bacon's  writings  are  as  much 
like  Shakespeare's  as  Dr.  Watts's  hymns  are  like  Roderick 
Random.  Nobody  but  a  fool  would  "try  to  make  them 
read  alike.  The  very  fact  that  Bacon's  high-sounding 
title,  '  The  Greatest  Birth  of  Time,'  written  and  pub- 
lished by  a  rich  man,  who  was  soon  after  Lord  High 
Chancellor  of  England,  and  in  a  land,  the  richest,  of  all 
the  earth,  in  colleges  and  libraries,  a  land  that  has  robbed 
all  other  lands,  by  purchase  and  loot,  of  books  and  manu- 
scripts, —  a  land  of  scholars  and  ideas,  —  a  land  of  the 
British  Museum,  and  private  collections,  —  a  land  where 
its  kings  were  often  scholars,  like  the  mighty  King 
Alfred,  —  a  land  conservative  and  preservative  of  all 
good  thought, — a  land  where  original  manuscripts  can 
seldom  be  bought,  and  where  first  editions  sell  for  enor- 
mous prices,  —  a  land  full  of  Shakespeare  societies,  —  a 
land  barren  of  Bacon  societies,  —  a  land  loving,  reading, 
quoting,  studying,  spouting  Shakespeare,  —  this  land, 
even  England,  cannot  show  one  copy  of  a  live  lord's  first 
work,  and  in  one  sense  alone  does  not  care  to  save  its 
Bacon. 

"  Shakespeare  died  an  old  man  at  fifty-two.  I  can  tell 
fortunes  pretty  well.  Show  me  an  August  sweeting,  and 
I  can  tell  you  that  it  will  be  dead  and  gone  in  October. 


THE  GREAT   ENGLISHMAN.  325 

Show  me  a  russet,  firm  and  hard,  ripe  in  the  last  of  Octo- 
ber, and  I  can  tell,  of  positive  knowledge,  that  with  care 
it  ought  to  keep  till  May.  Show  me  a  young  man  who 
grows  slow,  and  does  not  get  his  beard  until  he  is  long 
past  twenty-one,  and  I  know  that  he  ought  to  live  to  be 
eighty  or  more.  Early  ripe,  early  rotten.  Show  me  a 
Shakespeare,  omnivorous  enough  in  the  good  things  of 
this  life,  to  be  the  husband  of  a  woman  eight  years  older, 
and  with  three  children  at  twenty,  —  a  man  out  of  a  fam- 
ily that  nearly  all  die  young,  and  I  can  show  you  a  man 
that  will  have  sucked  his  orange  dry  at  fifty-two,  —  Avill 
have  retired  from  business,  will  have  paralysis  enough  to 
spoil  his  autograph,  and  will  be  ready  to  take  his  quietus 
in  a  rich  dinner. 

"I  have  seen  liufus  Choate's  writing,  and  I  could 
hardly  read  it.  I  have  heard  him  plead,  and  people  came 
from  far  to  hear  him.  Shakespeare's  tomb  and  bust  tell 
the  story  of  what  Stratford  knew  about  him.  Bacon  died 
and  had  no  monument  for  years.  His  rich  wife  raised 
none.  But  after  many  years,  a  man  who  had  been  his 
servant,  and  had  profited  by  the  money  that  Bacon  had 
lavishly  spent,  he,  out  of  gratitude  and  pity,  raised  a 
small  monument  to  author,  philosopher,  lawyer,  courtier, 
judge,  lord,  viscount,  and  High  Chancellor  of  England. 
He  was  buried  where  he  died,  away  from  father,  mother, 
kindred.  He  was  not  loved  or  lamented.  Shakespeare 
was,  and  to-day  there  is  no  shrine  on  earth  more 
precious.  Of  his  own  time,  Bacon  is  neglected,  and 
Elizabeth  despised.  Elizabeth  ordered  Shakespeare  to 
show  Falstaff  in  love,  and  he  wrote  the  '.Merry  Wives  of 
Windsor.'  Rare  Ben  Jonson  knew  Shakespeare  well, 
and  he  wrote :  — 


326  THE  WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

"  '  My  Shakespeare,  rise :  I  will  not  lodge  thee  by 
Chaucer  or  Spenser,  or  bid  Beaumont  lie 
A  little  farther,  to  make  thee  a  roome  ; 
Thou  art  a  rnoniment  without  a  toombe,  — 
And  art  alive  still,  while  thy  books  doth  live. 
Sweet  Swan  of  Avon,  what  a  sight  it  were 
To  see  thee  in  our  waters  yet  appear, 
And  make  those  flights  upon  the  banks  of  Thames, 
That  did  so  take  Eliza  and  our  James.' 

"Again  he  said,  'I  loved  the  man,  and  do  honor  his 
memory  on  this  side  idolatry,  as  much  as  any.  He  was 
indeed  honest,  and  of  an  open  and  free  nature — had  an 
excellent  fancy,  brave  notions,  and  gentle  expressions, 
wherein  he  flowed  with  that  facility,  that  sometimes  it 
was  necessary  he  should  be  stopped.'  Ah,  indeed,  rare 
Ben  Jonson  was  a  true,  loving  friend  !  He  also  says,  '  I 
remember  the  players  have  often  mentioned,  as  an  honor 
to  Shakespeare,  that  in  his  writing,  whatsoever  he  penned, 
he  never  blotted  a  line.'  Certainly,  he  could  do  it 
easily,  and  he  did  it.  Many  of  Bacon's  platitudes  remind 
me  of  a  certain  windy  orator,  who  said,  'I  have  consid- 
ered that  small  towns  and  sparsely  populated  do  not  con- 
tain as  many  inhabitants  as  larger  towns  more  densely 
populated.'  With  this  exception,  that  any  one  ought  to 
grin  at  this.  But  I  never  found  a  chance  to  smile  once 
at  all  the  prolonged  dreary  dulness  of  Bacon.  Twenty- 
four  years  after  Shakespeare  died,  Cote's  edition  of 
Shakespeare  was  published,  and  this  poem  by  Leonard 
Digges  is  prefixed :  — 

"  '  Poets  are  born,  not  made ;  when  I  would  prove 
The  truth,  the  glad  remembrance  I  must  love 
Of  never-dying  Shakespeare,  who  alone 
Is  argument  enough  to  make  that  one. 


THE  GREAT  ENGLISHMAN.  327 

First,  that  he  was  a  poet  none  would  doubt 

That  heard  the  applause  of  what  he  sees,  set  out, 

Imprinted : 

Next  Nature  only  helped  him  for  look,  thorow 

This  whole  book,  thou  shalt  find  he  doth  not -borrow 

One  phrase  from  Greeks,  or  Latines  imitate, 

Nor  once  from  vulgar  languages  translate. 

Nor,  plagair-like,  from  others  gleane, 

Nor  begs  he  from  each  witty  friend  a  scene 

To  piece  his  acts  with.     All  that  he  doth  write 

Is  pure  his  owne  :  plot,  language,  exquisite.' 

"  Of  all  the  asinine  foolishness  that  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury has  envolved,  none  is  more  stupid  than  the  Bacon- 
Shakespeare  controversy.  You  all  know  the  poet's 
epitaph.  Let  me  supplement  it,  in  closing,  with  a  stanza 
of  my  own  :  — 

"  Good  friends,  for  Jesus1  sake  be  true, 
Give  Shakespeare  honor,  richly  due ; 
And  cursed  be  he  where  liars  dwell, 
Who  says  he  wrote  not,  long  and  well." 

The  address  was  done  and  the  attention  had  been  per- 
fect. 

Roy  Bartlett  said,  "  We  have  with  us  a  delegation 
from  a  loyal  British  society.  And  they  can  sing. 
They  will  sing  a  new  song.  Their  soloist  happens  to 
have  the  same  name  as  Queen  Elizabeth's  music  teacher, 
Mr.  John  Bull;  and  we  can  all  join  in  the  chorus,  in  a 
word  of  praise  to  our  Mother  land."  John  Bull  was  a 
beauty. 

He  was  a  large  florid  Englishman,  with  ruffles  at  his 
wrists,  and  a  bosom  full  of  them.  Then  with  Miss  Gra- 
ham lightly  marking  time  on  the  piano,  and  Miss  Sarah 


328  THE   WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

Warren  with  dots  on  the  drum,  on  the  solo,  but  full 
sounds  and  "tutti"  on  the  chorus.  Then  John  Bull 
sang,  — 

"WHERE  THE  BOW  BELLS  RING." 

An  English  song  of  home. 

"  Come  join  in  a  song  of  our  mother  land, 
A  song  of  old  England  so  mighty  and  grand. 
The  land  that  we  love,  and  the  song  that  we  sing, 
Is  the  happy  land  where  the  Bow  bells  ring. 
CHORUS  —  Where  the  bow  bells  ring,  where  the  bow  bells  ring, 
Old  England  is  fair  as  the  flowers  of  spring. 
Ring  on,  sweet  bells,  your  music  tells 
Of  the  happy  land  where  the  bow  bells  ring. 

"  The  British  bells  ringing  glad  and  gay, 

And  we  seem  to  hear  them  so  far  away, 

And  home  comes  back  in  the  songs  we  sing, 

The  happy  land  where  the  Bow  bells  ring.  —  CHORUS. 

"  As  the  bird  flies  home  when  his  wing  is  free, 

Our  mother  land,  we  come  back  to  thee, 

In  the  tales  we  tell,  and  the  songs  we  sing, 

Of  the  happy  land  where  the  Bow  bells  ring.  —  CHORUS. 

"  Old  England's  flag  is  flowing  free, 

Britannia  sails  on  every  sea, 

All  round  the  world  true  Britons  sing 

Of  the  happy  land  where  the  Bow  bells  ring. — CHORUS. 

"  God  save  the  queen  and  England's  power, 
God  save  Old  England  in  danger's  hour, 
God  save  true  Britons,  wherever  found, 
While  the  world  swings   on  in  its  mighty  round.  — 
CHORUS." 

The  parlors  were  warm  and  the  windows  were  open. 
The  applause  outside  was  big  and  strong.  The  chorus 
woke  the  echoes  on  Beacon  Hill.  The  lights  slowly  de- 


THE   GREAT   ENGLISHMAN.  329 

dined  in  the  parlors.  The  piano  gave  a  few  chords, 
which  grew  fainter  as  the  lights  went  down,  then,  slowly 
sinking,  they  went  out  and  it  was  dark.  Then  a  woman's 
voice  called  firm  and  strong,  — 

"  O  Shakespeare  ;  come  to  us  to-night, 
Come  from  thy  home  of  power  and  might, 
Whose  work  the  years  have  borne  along, 
Replete  with  beauty,  joy,  and  song. 
Spirit  of  power,  inspire  this  place, 
And  let  us  now  behold  thy  face." 

There  was  a  clap  of  the  best  stage  thunder,  and  with 
bass  notes  on  the  piano,  Miss  Sarah's  drum  rolling,  stamp- 
ing feet  of  the  initiated,  a  bass  drum  and  a  big  gong 
in  the  cellar  and  you  would  have  thought  the  heavens  and 
earth  were  coming  together. 

O  ~ 

But  there,  before  the  curtain,  stood  an  English  warrior 
in  armor  on  one  side,  and  Queen  Elizabeth  in  all  her 
jewels,  ruffs  and  stomachers,  on  the  other,  with  crown 
and  sceptre  galore ;  while  between  them  and  behind  the 
curtain,  in  strong  light,  and  in  contrast  to  the  darkness 
of  the  rooms,  sat  Shakespeare.  The  same  high  forehead, 
light  complexion,  pleasant  face,  Vandyke  collar,  bouquet 
on  table,  library  background.  They  were  indeed  sur- 
prised, and  they  greeted  the  first  Englishman  of  all  time, 
with  round  after  round  of  applause.  Even  the  British 
flag,  the  cross  of  Saint  George  above  it  all,  was  not  for- 
gotten. They  looked  with  hungry  eyes,  and  well  they 
might,  for  never  did  I  see  but  this  one  man  who  was  an 
ideal  Shakespeare.  I  have  heard  many  speak  of  it. 

When  they  had  looked  long,  Roy  said,  "  Friends,  I  am 
glad  you  are  pleased.  This  gentleman  is  a  worthy  rep- 


330  THE  WILD   ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

resentative  of  the  great  poet.  He  is  a  literary  and 
Shakespearian  scholar,  long  known  in  the  city  of  Cam- 
bridge, in  the  old  Franklin  Library  Association,  and  the 
Irving  Literary  Association,  and  now  well  known  in  the 
city  hall  of  Cambridge,  most  kindly  and  pleasantly,  as  Mr. 
John  McDuffie.  I  am  obliged  to  him  for  his  assistance 
and  for  our  pleasant  illusion.  Now  we  can  afford  to  sing 
'  God  save  the  Queen,'  one  stanza,  to  close  our  pleasant 
evening." 

It  was  done,  and  the  way  that  British  delegation  sang 
was  an  inspiration  indeed.  The  Art  Coterie  took  their 
enthusiasm  with  them  and  they  always  had  it.  Mr. 
McDuffie  was  very  pleasantly  greeted  after  the  company 
broke  up  and  the  Warrens  had  abundance  of  approval  of 
their  receptions. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

THE  ARTISTS    OF   BOSTON. 

THE  Mr.  Stacy  who  had  been  a  visitor  at  the  Warren 
home,  with  his  wife,  was  at  all  the  Art  Coterie  entertain- 
ments. His  brother  also  came,  and  was  very  pleasant 
company.  He  was  a  teacher  in  one  of  the  best  private 
schools  in  Boston.  It  was  said,  what  a  splendid  match 
he  would  make  for  Miss  Emily  Warren,  and  it  was  not 
long  before  they  began  to  be  of  the  same  opinion.  They 
were  very  quiet  about  it,  but  still  they  allowed  the  idea 
to  dawn  upon  them,  and  to  interest  them. 

It  was  getting  toward  spring.  Roy  had  made  an  ex- 
change with  a  tailor,  and  sold  him  several  pictures,  which 
gave  him  all  the  clothing  he  needed.  Eli  Bertram  had 
sent  in  a  man  with  an  order  for  pictures,  and  had  paid  it 
in  cash.  Roy  had  shown  how  grateful  he  was,  and  was 
giving  him  love  and  warm  welcome  in  return.  Some  of 
the  most  loving,  grateful  people  I  have  ever  known,  have 
been  aged  people.  Sometimes  they  are  hungry  for  love. 
Roy  never  forgot  a  friend. 

He  and  Miss  Graham  called  on  the  other  artists,  in 
studio  hours.  They  went  to  the  galleries,  the  Art  Club, 
and  the  Art  Museum.  It  was  a  change  and  a  recreation, 
to  study  the  work  of  others.  He  dined  with  Miss  Gra- 
ham's uncle  and  aunt,  and  a  fine  time  they  had  with  the 
stereoscopics.  There  are  some  fine  collections  in  Boston. 

331 


332  THE  WILD  AKTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

They  are  the  best  pictures  ever  made,  and  they  ought  to 
take  a  revival.  Our  government  ought  to  have  views  of 
every  fort  and  fortification,  every  ship  and  public  building, 
of  its  own.  There  ought  to  be  a  stereoscopic  department 
Nothing  shows,  educates,  and  delineates  so  much.  I 
know  one  man  who  has  thousands  of  glass  pictures,  and 
another  who  has  ten  thousand  views  of  all  kinds.  Roy 
enjoyed  the  society  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Graham.  They  had 
travelled  and  seen  much.  Miss  Graham  did  the  honors, 
picking  out  the  views  she  liked  best,  and  Mr.  Graham 
would  tell  some  story  or  make  some  comment  on  some  of 
his  pictures.  Long  as  the  evening  was,  it  was  gone  be- 
fore they  knew  it. 

Then  Roy  went  home,  musing  as  he  went.  He  took  it 
slowly,  but  undoubtedly  he  was  doing  a  little  quiet  think- 
ing. He  paid  no  especial  attention  to  the  way  home,  but 
when  he  was  on  the  top  of  Beacon  hill,  he  paused,  and 
said  to  himself,  "  Yes :  I  will  think  of  it,  but  I  will  not 
hurry  it." 

Not  long  after  this  there  was  a  dinner  party  at  Mrs. 
Warren's.  Although  I  have  no  especial  warrant  to  do 
so,  I  will  couple  the  names  together,  as  they  did  in  their 
minds :  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Alfred  Stacy,  Mr.  Edward  Stacy 
and  Miss  Emily  Warren,  Mr.  Royal  Bartlett  and  Miss 
Mary  Graham,  Mr.  Edric  Lyman  and  Miss  Sarah  War- 
ren. These  eight  people  did  Mrs.  Parna  Warren  enter- 
tain. To  say  that  they  had  a  fine  time,  would  not  be 
strong  enough.  Birds  of  a  feather  flock  together.  Here 
were  four  as  good  honorable  men  as  you  can  find,  and  all 
they  have  to  do,  is  to  eat  and  drink,  and  entertain  four 
as  honorable  and  interesting  young  women,  as  ever  were 
seen  since  Jacob  kissed  Rachel  and  lifted  up  his  voice 


THE  ARTISTS   OF  BOSTON.  333 

and  wept.  Jacob  was  Rachel's  uncle.  Jacob  must  have 
had  it  bad.  These  young  people  got  through  the  even- 
ing without  a  tear.  But  they  often  laughed  heartily  at 
Edric  Lyman's  stories  or  Edward  Stacy's.  Lawyers  and 
school  teachers  are  frequently  awful  sharp. 

Miss  Graham's  carriage  came  with  Fred  Annerly. 
Roy  asked  permission  to  walk  home  with  her.  He  got 
it  and  sent  the  carriage  home  empty.  He  walked  the 
long  path  with  her,  across  the  Common,  and  saw  her 
safely  in  her  own  home.  It  was  a  pleasant  walk,  but  with- 
out anything  especial  to  report  to  you,  who  read  this. 

With  industry,  good  management,  a  good  number  of 
pupils,  and  attractive  ways,  Roy  was  doing  well.  He 
enjoyed  life  thoroughly  and  thankfully.  He  would  not 
be  morbid,  and  he  did  keep  sweet  as  a  rose.  Much  de- 
pends upon  the  will.  So  the  days  went  along  until  one 
Wednesday  morning,  when  the  janitor  called  again.  He 
said :  "  Mr.  Bartlett,  do  the  artists  want  to  try  to  rescue 
Mr.  Wilkie  from  himself?  He  is  down  again,  financially 
and  morally.  He  is  almost  in  delirium  tremens." 

"  I  will  call  on  him,"  said  Roy. 

He  did  call  and  knock  at  the  door.  After  a  long  wait, 
Roy  heard  shuffling  feet  coming  to  the  door,  and  Frank 
Wilkie  was  a  sight  to  behold.  I  need  not  describe  a 
man  saturated  with  whiskey  and  tobacco.  But  he  had 
consciousness  enough  to  be  ashamed.  He  looked  it.  He 
began  to  stammer  an  excuse,  but  Roy  stopped  him. 

"  Mr.  Wilkie,  you  do  not  need  to  say  a  word.  Let  me 
talk  to  you." 

There  was  a  light  knock  at  the  door.  Roy  admitted 
Miss  Graham,  and  Frank  Wilkie  was  ashamed  indeed. 
He  blushed. 


334  THE   WILD   ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

She  said,  "  I  pitied  you,  Mr.  Wilkie,  and  I  want  to 
help  you  and  save  you." 

Said  Roy,  "  Why  will  you  go  to  hell  this  way  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  hell,"  he  answered. 

"  There  is,"  said  Roy,  "  and  you  are  in  it  and  it  is  in 
you.  You  are  full  of  it.  You  are  almost  out  of  your 
mind  with  the  poison  of  alcohol.  When  you  say  a  man  is 
intoxicated,  you  are  simply  saying  he  is  poisoned.  Toxi- 
con  is  the  technical  name  for  poison.  You  are  poisoned, 
almost  crazy.  Your  clothing  is  poisoned  to  rags.  Your 
money  is  all  gone  and  poisoned  out  of  you.  Your  self- 
respect  is  all  gone.  Your  good  name  and  clear  con- 
science are  all  gone,  and  you  are  poisoned,  body  and  soul. 
You  are  in  hell  if  ever  a  man  was.  You  are  suffering. 
Sorry  and  ashamed.  No  drunkard  hath  eternal  life.  No 
drunkard  shall  inherit  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  Frank 
Wilkie,  I  know  you  had  a  good  mother.  How  must  she 
feel  to  look  down  upon  you  now?  Here  Miss  Graham 
and  I  have  come  to  help  you  and  rescue  you.  As  soon 
as  the  janitor  told  us  we  came." 

Frank  Wilkie  was  weeping  and  shivering  in  agony. 

"  Oh,  do  give  it  up  forever,"  said  Miss  Graham,  and  she 
wept  and  pleaded  with  him. 

"  There  is  no  hope,"  he  sobbed. 

"  Yes,  there  is,"  said  Miss  Graham.  "  I  know  there  is 
hope,  for  you  are  loving  and  giving  to  all  but  yourself. 
I  saw  you  lay  a  silver  dollar  down  before  a  poor  woman 
who  was  washing  up  the  stairs.  And  I  know  you  almost 
supported  a  poor  girl,  who  got  sick  last  winter.  You 
gave  her  money  to  go  to  her  friends  in  the  country.  Oh, 
give  it  up,"  said  she,  and  she  begged  and  wept  alter- 
nately. 


THE   ARTISTS   OF  BOSTON.  335 

Roy  kept  silent  while  Miss  Graham  pleaded  with  him. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  Frank  Wilkie  asked. 

"Sign   a   solemn  agreement   never  to  use  alcohol  or 
tobacco  again,"  said  Miss  Graham. 
.    "  Good  men  use  tobacco,"  said  Wilkie. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Wilkie,"  said  she,  "  but  the  best  and  cleanest 
men  do  not.  You  will  never  be  clean  and  safe  until  you 
give  them  both  up  forever.  Tobacco  is  a  vice,  and  you 
have  had  enough.  Oh,  be  a  clean  white  man." 

She  wept  as  she  pleaded  with  him. 

"  Then,  I  will  sign  it,"  said  he.  "  I  was  in  despair. 
I  thought  I  had  no  friend  on  earth,  but  I  find  I  have  two 
faithful  ones.  Miss  Graham,  I  never  will  disgrace  my 
name  again.  I  never  will  grieve  my  sainted  mother 
again,  or  bring  tears  to  your  eyes.  Hereafter  I  use 
neither,  again,  as  long  as  I  live.  Mr.  Bartlett,  please 
write  an  obligation,  as  strong  as  you  can  make  it.  Miss 
Graham  shall  prevail  and  beauty  shall  conquer  the  beast." 

Said  Roy,  "  Miss  Graham,  will  you  remain  here  until  I 
return  with  the  covenant?" 

She  would.  Roy  went  down  to  his  own  studio  and 
soon  returned  with  the  following,  handsomely  written  on 
large  note  paper. 

"This  certifies  that  I,  Francis  Wilkie,  do  hereby  and  herein 
solemnly  swear,  upon  my  sacred  honor,  by  all  I  hope  for  in 
this  life,  or  the  life  to  come,  by  the  memory  of  my  sainted 
mother,  that  I  will  Never  again  use  intoxicating  liquors  of  any 
kind,  or  tobacco.  So  help  me  God,  and  keep  me  steadfast." 

With  tearful  eyes  and  trembling  hands  he  signed  it. 

Roy  added,  "  In  our  presence  "  and  handed  the  pen  to 
Miss  Graham  and  then  it  bore  the  names  of  Mary  Gra- 
ham and  Royal  Bartlett  as  witnesses. 


336  THE   WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

"  Shall  I  keep  it  and  bring  you  a  copy  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Frank  Wilkie. 

Miss  Graham  would  insist  upon  leaving  a  ten-dollar 
note  with  Roy  for  FVank  Wilkie. 

"  Now,"  said  Roy,  "  I  will  get  you  some  strong  coffee 
and  a  lunch.  If  you  can  ventilate  and  right  up  this 
studio  to  make  it  look  as  if  a  temperance  man  lived  here, 
it  will  be  in  order." 

Roy  soon  returned  with  a  can  of  coffee  and  a  good 
lunch.  Miss  Graham  returned  to  their  studio,  but  she  was 
tired.  The  strain  of  anxiety  concerning  Frank  Wilkie 
was  so  great  that  she  needed  rest.  She  did  not  work, 
and  went  home  early.  While  Frank  Wilkie  was  having 
his  lunch,  which  he  needed  to  sober  him  off,  Roy  went 
up  to  his  wardrobe  at  Mrs.  Warren's,  and  got  a  second- 
best  suit,  which  was  just  right  for  Frank  Wilkie.  This 
he  gave  him,  and  soon  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  him 
look  like  a  man  again.  It  touched  him  all  the  more. 

O 

He  was  completely  subdued.  Then  Roy  led  him  out  to 
the  Turkish  baths  in  Beacon  Street  and  put  him  in 
charge  of  Mr.  Haggerty,  with  instructions  as  to  what  he 
had  been,  what  he  had  agreed  to  be,  and  to  make  a  three- 
hour  job  of  it,  to  keep  watch  of  him,  and  to  let  him  sleep 
if  he  would.  He  took  his  bath  splendidly  and  was  as 
quiet  as  a  lamb.  He  rested  while  Roy  got  his  own  lunch 
and  put  in  three  hours  good  work. 

After  Roy  closed  the  studio,  he  went  to  the  Turkish 
bath  rooms  and  got  Frank  Wilkie.  They  went  down  to 
Marston's,  on  Brattle  Street,  and  got  a  tenderloin  steak, 
with  a  cup  of  strong  tea.  It  went  well.  He  had  been 
cleaned,  rested,  fed,  employed,  and  when  a  man  is  thor- 
oughly busy,  the  devil  has  little  hold  on  him.  Then  Roy 


THE  ARTISTS   OF   BOSTON.  337 

took  him  to  his  own  room,  and,  with  illustrated  hooks 
and  many  other  things  to  interest  him,  he  left  him,  and 
descended  to  his  own  supper.  I  am  afraid  I  use  some 
words  interchangeably,  but  I  do  not  forget  the  traditions 
of  my  ancestors,  and  I  cannot  forget  the  customs  of  fine 
people  of  the  present  day. 

Roy  explained  to  Mrs.  Warren  enough  of  the  situation, 
but  not  recounting  all  the  objectionable  points,  for  it  is 
not  always  best  to  horrify  a  woman.  If  every  woman 
knew  what  manner  of  man  was  near  her,  she  would 
shrink  much  oftener  than  she  does  now. 

Roy  shared  his  bed  with  Frank,  and  they  both  rested 
well.  Frank  was  still  pale  and  unsteady,  and  Roy 
located  him  in  his  own  studio,  with  colors  and  canvas,  to 
work.  He  did  not  leave  him  long  alone.  They  both 
applied  themselves  to  work  during  the  day,  and  Roy 
paid  ten  dollars  for  rent  for  Frank  Wilkie.  He  brought 
back  the  receipt,  giving  it  to  him,  and  got  a  look  of 
thanks  and  grateful  acknowledgment. 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  Art  Coterie.  Frank  Wilkie 
did  not  wish  to  be  visible  at  the  meeting.  The  notice  on 
Roy's,  door  announced  that  the  entertainment  would  be 
"  Sketches  of  Boston  Artists."  There  was  a  screen  near 
the  desk  in  Mrs.  Warren's  parlors,  that  effectually  cut  off 
a  corner,  but  left  room  for  a  chair  behind  it.  In  this 
chair  sat  Frank  Wilkie,  to  hear  all,  but  to  be  invisible. 
No  one  outside  the  family  knew  he  was  there,  or  suspected 
it.  One  of  the  older  artists,  that  had  long  been  in 
Boston,  was  introduced,  and  took  the  stand  to  speak. 
He  said :  — 

Ladies  and  gentlemen,  —  Art  is  long.  Its  ways  are 
various,  and  the  many  ways  that  artists  have  of  holding 


338  THE  WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

the  mirror  up  to  Nature  give  us  infinite  varieties  of 
interpretation.  There  need  be  no  antagonism,  because 
we  have  not  the  same  likes,  or  because  we  have  not  the 
same  facility  of  expression.  Now  I  have  before  me  a 
peculiar  task,  and  if  you  can  help  me  by  giving  me  per- 
mission to  speak  what  you  may  not  assent  to,  and  let  it 
pass  for  what  it  is  worth,  to  enjoy  all  you  can,  and  to 
refuse  to  be  fretted  by  what  you  do  not  agree  to, 
then  my  work  is  easy,  and  all  is  pleasant.  I  have  my 
likes  and  dislikes  as  much  as  any,  but  I  do  not  under- 
value an  artist  that  paints  a  cheap  picture.  The  ancient 
statement,  that  all  men  are  created  free  and  equal,  is  to 
be  taken  with  great  allowance.  All  men  are  indeed  cre- 
ated free,  within  certain  very  narrow  limits,  but  they  get 
into  trouble  if  they  exceed  them.  In  a  few  rights  they 
may  be  equal :  but  for  the  most  part  they  are  utterly  and 
eternally  unequal,  and  I  think  they  are  more  so  in  their 
perceptions  of  art  than  in  anything  else.  In  some  it  is 
utterly  wanting,  a  minus  quantity  forever;  while  others 
are  pilgrims  of  beauty  and  children  of  light  until  they 
are  translated. 

The  numbers  by  which  I  denote  these  artists  dp  not 
indicate  any  quality,  but  are  given  as  they  occur  to  me. 
No.  1.  My  friend,  whom  I  shall  call  number  one,  was 
born  in  1817,  in  New  Ipswich,  N.  H.  I  have  known 
him  many  years.  I  suppose  he  must  be  a  sinner,  if  all 
men  are ;  but  why  he  should  submit  to  such  an  insinu- 
ation, I  never  could  see.  I  never  found  anything  to  base 
such  a  statement  upon.  I  think  he  paints  as  large  a  per- 
centage of  pictures  that  I  like  as  any  man  living.  It  is 
always  a  beauty.  His  colors  are  always  pure  and  clean. 
His  summer  home  and  studio  are  at  North  Conway. 


THE  ARTISTS   OF  BOSTON.  389 

The  views  of  the  mountains,  the  valley,  and  the  world  of 
wonder  near  home,  give  him  beautiful  subjects.  I  have 
one  view,  near  his  home,  and  Thomas'  Starr  King  watched 
him  while  he  painted  it.  I  have  another,  in  the  Cathedral 
Woods,  with  his  own  son,  Kensett,  in  the  picture.  His 
lilies  and  roses,  his  kalmias  and  apple-blossoms,  his  corn  and 
"  punkins,"  his  woods  and  waterfalls,  are  beauty  pictures. 
He  has  had  many  pupils.  Not  long  ago  I  heard  a  young 
artist  say,  "I  have  just  been  up  in  this  artist's  studio,  and 
he  has  quite  a  harem  of  women,  all  painting  in  oil ;  and 
I'll  be  hanged  if  there  was  not  one  pupil  sixty-five  years 
old.  Ha!  ha!  ha!" 

He  laughed  heartily.  After  he  was  gone  out,  I  told  the 
others  that  the  pupil  in  question  was  seventy  years  old, 
and  could  paint  a  much  better  picture  than  this  critic 
could.  Then  they  all  laughed.  I  always  enjoy  a  call  at 
his  studio.  He  is  a  kindly  critic,  and  carries  no  toma- 
hawk or  scalping-knife.  So  the  merciful  find  mercy. 
His  name  is  in  the  later  encyclopedias,  and  it  is  very 
pleasant  to  know  that  his  winter  studio  is  in  Boston.  For 
the  sake  of  Boston  and  North  Conway  I  might  wish  him 
to  live  forever,  but  it  would  not  be  fair  to  keep  him  out 
of  heaven  so  loner.  So,  inasmuch  as  I  do  not  know  what 

O  * 

specific  good  to  wish  for  Benjamin  Champney,  I  shall 
leave  it  for  the  Almighty  Power  that  gives,  to  select  the 

gift. 

"  May  he  have  all,  in  one  true  wish  exprest, 
Whate'er  God  gives  to  those  that  he  loves  best." 

No.  2  is  an  Englishman,  "For  he  himself  has  said  it, 

O  * 

and  'tis  greatly  to  his  credit,  that  he  is  an  Englishman." 
He  has  crossed  the  Atlantic  many  times.  He  has  gone 
back  many  times,  to  care  for  his  sisters  in  England. 


340  THE   WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

He  is  one  of  the  kindest  and  best  of  men.  While  he 
attends,  the  Art  Club  will  be  sure  of  a  total-absti- 
nence, anti-tobacco  man.  The  woods  are  not  full  of 
such  men.  Everybody  speaks  of  him  in  the  kindest 
manner.  His  studio  is  a  hive  of  pictures,  many  flowers, 
landscapes  and  souvenirs  of  old  England.  He  plays  the 
flute  finely.  It  is  very  entertaining  to  hear  him  tell  of  his 
little  adventures  he  has  met  in  his  travels  across  the  ferry, 
and  in  England.  Not  long  since  I  called  at  his  door,  and, 
without  meaning  it,  I  gave  a  Masonic  knock.  It  was 
answered  in  kind,  and  in  a  moment  more,  I  knew  what  I 
did  not  know  before,  that  Henry  Day  had  given  me  the 
welcome  of  a  Master-mason.  As  Rip  says,  May  he  live 
long,  and  prosper. 

No.  3  was  born  in  Raymond,  N.  H.  Forty  years 
ago  he  was  for  a  while  a  salesman  in  a  dry  goods  store. 
But  all  the  time  he  was  studiously  learning  to  draw  and 
paint.  Soon  he  began  to  paint  all  the  time.  He  has  had 
a  great  many  pupils.  He  has  had  an  art  school  in  Bos- 
ton for  many  years,  teaching  several  branches  of  art.  He 
loved  pictures,  and  illustrated  books,  beyond  any  one  I 
ever  saw.  Some  said  he  was  a  miser  in  art.  If  it  is  a 
fault  to  love  art  and  beauty  so  much,  it  leans  to  virtue's 
side.  Better  love  beauty  than  something  worse.  Later, 
when  his  strength  failed,  he  sold  off  about  four  thousand 
dollars  worth  of  books  at  auction.  He  must  have  had 
many  thousand  dollars  worth  of  books,  engravings,  and 
works  of  art.  Illustrations  by  Turner,  Stanfield,  Pyne, 
Calame,  Harding,  Bartlett,  etc.,  and  O  how  many  port- 
folios of  engravings  and  prints.  I  think  he  knew  more  of 
art  in  all  its  branches,  than  any  man  I  ever  knew.  His 
pictures  sold  for  moderate  prices,  but  he  was  very  prolific 


THE  ARTISTS   OF   BOSTON.  341 

in  them.  I  have  been  on  summer  tours  with  him  several 
times,  and  it  was  very  enjoyable.  But  one  day  in  Febru- 
ary, 1888,  a  few  pupils  and  friends  gathered  at  his  studio, 
at  the  corner  of  Essex  and  Washington  streets,  and 
listened  to  his  burial  service  by  Rev.  Dr.  Bartol,  and 
later,  William  H.  Titcombe  was  borne  to  the  craves  of 

'  O 

his  family,  and  laid  beside  his  father  and  mother,  in  Ray- 
mond, N.  H.  Age  63.  He  had  no  vices.  He  loved 
poetry,  beauty,  and  art  without  limit.  He  was  ready  to 
impart  what  he  knew.  He  had  taking,  pleasant  ways. 
He  was  full  of  fun,  and  the  best  of  company.  He  was 
Bohemian  enough  to  make  the  best  of  life.  And  to  him 
I  take  a  cup  of  kindness  yet  for  "Auld  Lang  Syne." 

No.  4  is  a  lady  artist.  She  has  a  home  in  Middleboro 
and  Boston.  She  just  believes  in  Boston,  which  is  assui'- 
ance  of  the  highest  taste.  She  paints  in  oil,  and  has 
many  orders  for  crayon  portraits.  She  does  fine  crayon 
work.  Not  long  since,  she  paid  a  visit  to  Southern 
California.  That  was  a  good  thing,  but  it  was  a  better 
thincr  to  come  back  to  Boston,  where  she  is  known  and 

O  ' 

appreciated.  The  name  on  her  studio  door  is  Miss  Sarah 
D.  White. 

No.  5  is  a  man  who  paints  many  pictures  at  moderate 
prices,  and  gives  as  much  art  for  the  money,  as  any  man 
I  know.  He  has  been  in  Europe,  and  travelled  much  in 
America.  He  is  honest  and  true,  easy  and  kind.  He  is 
so  good  to  me  that  he  will  not  chide  me,  even  for  this 
portrait.  He  is  a  Second  Advent  Christian,  and  don't 
care  who  knows  it.  He  is  teetotal  and  anti-tobacco.  He 
is  smart  and  industrious.  It  is  pleasant  to  meet  him 
here,  and  it  would  add  largely  to  the  promise  of  the 
sweet  by  and  by,  to  know  that  I  should  have  for  a  near 


342  THE   WILD   ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

neighbor,  Mr.  E.  W.  Parkhurst.     Perhaps  we  might  go 
sketching  together. 

O  O 

No.  6  was  a  queer  compound.  He  was  small  in  size. 
Sometimes  he  would  dress  fairly  well,  and  soon  he  would 
be  shabby.  He  was  embalmed  in  tobacco,  and  he 
often  heightened  the  flavor  with  whiskey.  But  he  could 
paint  in  very  attractive  color.  He  would  take  a  palette 
knife  and  dab  on  bright  color;  then  wobble  it  into  a  sun- 
set effect  that  would  charm  you.  His  pictures  would 
always  have  some  past-finding-out  effect,  that  would  take 
with  you.  But  his  affairs  were  always  at  a  crisis.  He 
got  locked  up  for  his  thirst.  His  pockets  held  nothing. 
He  is  gone.  He  was  a  scattering  genius,  with  several 
vices.  Alas  for  No.  6 !  What  a  pity  he  was. 

No.  7  restores  pictures,  and  does  it  admirably.  What 
beautiful  things  I  have  seen  in  his  studio.  In  all  the 
picture  work  that  I  have  met,  I  have  found  no  restora- 
tions that  have  pleased  me  more  than  his.  Fine  speci- 
mens that  are  far  too  good  to  lose,  come  back  with  the 
same  feeling  and  the  life  renewed.  Some  that  seem 
cracked  and  darkened  to  death,  come  to  life  at  his  bid- 
ding. I  always  see  something  new  in  his  room.  He 
does  the  best  work,  and  pleasant  as  that  is,  the  artist  him- 
self gives  the  work  an  added  charm.  Mr.  Harold  Fletcher 
does  not  need  to  ask  my  blessing.  He  has  it  all  the  time. 

No.  8  paints  flowers,  and  does  it  splendidly.  His 
studio  has  been  in  the  studio  building  for  years.  He  has 
had  many  pupils.  I  have  a  picture  of  his,  magnolia  buds 
and  blossom.  He  manages  to  give  the  charm  of  Nature 
and  art  in  his  pictures,  in  a  way  to  make  them  very  inter- 
esting. I  give  Mr.  George  W.  Seavey  my  kindest  re- 
gards both  for  the  man  and  his  work. 


THE   ARTISTS   OF  BOSTON.  343 

No.  9  paints  portraits.  For  good,  faithful,  durable  work 
they  are  splendid.  I  have  two  of  them.  One  is  my  son 
Bert,  at  three  years  old,  with  light  curly  hair.  I  have  had 
people  say  they  had  rather  have  that  picture,  than  any  in 
the  house.  It  is  perfectly  satisfactory.  I  have  also  my 
own  portrait  by  him.  -It  is  satisfactorily  and  con- 
foundedly like  me.  What  a  gallery  his  portraits  would 
make.  Several  of  his  are  in  Mechanics  Hall  in  Worces- 
ter. He  has  painted  Lincoln,  Garrison,  Gov.  Andrew, 
Col.  Ward,  Sumner,  Webster,  Phillips,  John  B.  Moore, 
M.  P.  Wilder,  Gough,  Parker,  Parker  Pillsbury,  S.  G. 
Foster,  and  ever  so  many  more.  For  the  best  of 
work,  done  by  the  best  of  men,  I  recommend  both  the 
man  and  his  work,  with  lifelong  regards  for  Mr.  E.  T. 
Billings. 

No.  10  is  a  Boston  boy.  He  was  born  in  1813,  in 
Atkinson  Street,  now  Congress  street.  He  has  been  in 
Europe,  and  has  painted  long  and  well  in  Boston.  He 
has  had  many  pupils.  Some  artists  take  a  subject,  and 
paint  nature  in  cold  hard  facts,  grimly  true.  This  artist 
will  take  the  same  subject,  and,  while  being  faithful  to 
the  scene,  he  will  idealize  it,  and  make  it  mysterious  and 
attractive,  so  that  you  will  wonder  at  the  secret  of  his 
art.  I  like  the  pictures  and  the  artist.  His  work  is  in 
the  best  hoilses,  and  wherever  it  is,  there  is  a  subtle 
something  about  it,  that  is  the  quality,  that  is  almost  the 
despair  of  art.  What  pleasant  calls  I  have  had  at  his 
studio.  The  percentage  of  his  pictures  that  I  should  be 
glad  to  own  and  see  every  day,  is  large.  They  are  vastly 
superior  to  many  of  the  French  pictures  that  sell  for  so 
large  a  price.  Here  is  a  poem  of  his  which  I  appropriate. 
It  is  a  view  from  his  own  house. 


344  THE  WILD   AETIST   IN   BOSTON. 


THE  REVOLVING  LIGHT. 

By  S.  L.  Gerry. 

'Tis  dark.     My  children  sleep. 

'Tis  dark.     Yet  day  begins  to  creep. 
'Tis  dawn.     Yon  harbor,  lights  have  shone  all  night, 
Till  day's  first  peep. 

Now  bright  it  burns,  now  fainter  turns, 

Now  dark  as  Egypt's  night ; 
Now  brighter  gleams,  now  stronger  beams, 
Now  full-orbed  light. 

My  eyes  still  seek  the  distant  streak 

Where  day  the  ocean  meets, 
Paler  the  light  revolves  as  night 
The  morning  greets. 

Yet  still  it  burns,  and  lights  by  turns 

At  danger's  treacherous  edge, 
Where  breakers  dash,  and  sullen  lash, 
O'er  sunken  ledge. 

Yon  little  star  that  pales  afar 

Hath  faithful  vigils  kept, 
At  danger's  post,  guarding  the  coast, 
While  men  have  slept. 

Its  work  is  done.     Behold  the  sun, 

And  now  its  little  ray, 

Mingling  its  gleams  with  God's  own  beams, 
Is  merged  in  glorious  day. 

And  so,  for  all  he  is,  and  all  he  has  done,  I  vote  that 
Samuel  L.  Gerry  is  an  honor  to  himself,  to  art,  and  to 
Boston. 

No.  11  is  composed  of  two  ones,  side^by  side.  Conse- 
quently they  are  twins,  C.  and  D.  They  were  born  in 
Maiden,  in  the  same  room  that  Adoniram  Judson  was.  I 


THE   ARTISTS   OF   BOSTON.  345 

do  not  know  them  apart  and  cannot  consider  them  apart. 
They  are  very  talented  men.  One  paints  pictures,  the 
other  is  a  sculptor.  One  or  both  designed  the  soldiers' 
monument  in  Cambridge.  They  are  musical,  witty,  liter- 
ary, artistic,  and  if  you  need  daylight  on  any  thing  that 
is  nebulous  to  you,  it  is  safe  to  consult  them.  Is  it  a 
lecture  on  music,  literature,  art,  sculpture,  Shakespeare? 
"Well,  it  is  a  blessed  thing  to  know  something.  I  give 
kind  regards  to  the  brothers  Cyrus  and  Darius  Cobb. 

No.  12  is  a  widow  with  an  invalid  depending  upon  her. 
She  had  a  little  money  to  begin  on,  and  a  love  for  art, 
but  no  genius.  It  was  uphill  work.  She  took  a  few 
lessons,  and  painted  some  almost  hopeless  pictures.  Her 
courage  was  good  and  she  did  improve.  So  by  main 
strength  and  will  power,  she  would  learn  to  paint.  Now 
she  paints  a  fair  picture,  has  many  pupils,  at  a  low  rate, 
and  compels  art  to  be  her  servant.  Art  shows  good  taste 
by  surrendering  to  such  a  pleasant,  true-hearted  lady.  We 
cannot  all  be'grenadiers  in  art. 

No.  13  and  his  wife  came  eight  years  ago  from  East 
Prussia.  They  lived  in  Washington  at  first.  They  are 
just  married  lovers,  and  it  is  refreshing  to  visit  them  at 
their  home.  They  have  quite  a  picture  gallery  and  studio 
beside.  Scenes  in  or  near  Washington,  Boston,  and  in 
Germany.  Their  pets  are  many.  Canaries,  rabbits, 
doves,  Angora  cats  and  several  monkeys.  Dandie,  their 
black  monkey  with  a  white  face,  gives  me  the  kindest 
greeting.  These  people  are  fine  artists,  and  I  give  my 
kind  regards  to  Mr.  Albert  and  Mrs.  Ottilie  Bon-is. 

No.  14  is  a  young  man  who  loves  art.  Usually  it  is  a 
blessing,  but  with  him  it  is  a  pity.  Because  if  he  hated 
it,  he  would  let  it  alone.  But.  now  he  has  a  studio,  and 


346  THE   WILD   ARTIST  IN   BOSTON. 

paints  pictures.  Some  are  of  barn-door  size.  O  the  roses, 
the  landscapes  and  the  figures.  Of  course  there  is  no 
valid  and  sufficient  reason  for  profanity  ;  but  if  there  was 
his  pictures  would  be  that  reason.  They  are  as  far  from 
being  works  of  art  as  dock  mud  is  from  being  wedding  cake. 
Any  artist  would  almost  be  justified  in  breaking  out  in 
wild,  wicked,  elaborate  denunciations  of  such  work.  He 
painted  a  little  child  kneeling  at  prayer.  Going  by  his 
door  I  saw  it  and  I  never  wanted  a  tomahawk  so  badly 
in  my  life.  A  teamster  saw  it,  and  went  off  gritting  his 
teeth.  The  little  girl's  bare  foot  was  too  big  for  a  man's 
arctic.  A  descendant  of  the  laughing  philosopher  got  a 
glimpse  of  it  and  went  off,  holding  on  to  his  abdomen. 
And  yet,  that  artist  might  have  been  a  success  driving  a 
tip  cart.  Usually  it  is  better  to  paint  a  poor  picture  than 
none,  but  there  is  a  limit.  He  will  not  see  this,  and  I 
will  not  tell  his  name. 

No.  15  was  born  in  Boston  and  lives  in  Maiden.  I  had 
a  chance  to  see  him  and  his  pictures  within  a  week  and  I 
never  saw  a  finer  moonlight  than  he  showed  me.  I  do 
admire  all  his  work.  This  picture  was  the  bay  of  Naples 
by  moonlight.  Vesuvius  of  course.  About  the  year 
1837,  when  he  was  in  Italy,  he  lived  awhile  at  Albano. 
Mr.  S.  L.  Gerry  went  there  and  was  with  him  for  some 
time.  They  went  sketching  together.  With  a  hope  of 
doing  him  some  good,  Mr.  Gerry  one  day  asked  him, 
Why  do  you  not  give  some  thought  of  the  life  to  come, 
and  look  forward  and  upward  sometimes  ?  It  will  make 
a  better  and  a  happier  man  of  you.  He  answered,  I  do 
not  trouble  myself  about  the  future,  for  the  present  is  all 
I  can  attend  to.  Nevertheless  he  remembered  Mr.  Gerry's 
kind  words.  A  little  while  before,  some  friend  had  given 


THE  ARTISTS   OF   BOSTON.  347 

Mr.  Gerry  a  small  Bible  as  a  keepsake.  He  lost  it.  He 
thought  the  custom-house  folks  got  it.  But  no,  it  was 
left  with  Mr.  George  L.  Brown  at  Albano,  and  he  thought 
it  was  left  for  him  to  read  as  a  bit  of  missionary  good 
work  from  his  friend  Gerry.  Later,  when  Mr.  Brown 
was  sick  from  brain  fever,  he  read  Mr.  Gerry's  Bible  as 
he  recovered.  He  learned  to  love  it  and  believe  in  it, 
and  Mr.  Brown  tells,  that  the  story  and  faith  of  Christ 
has  brightened  his  life,  and  made  a  better  man  of  him. 
He  lived  many  years  in  Rome.  He  had  good  success  in 
selling  his  pictures.  I  think  he  was  born  in  the  same 
year  as  Mr.  Gerry.  Both  Boston  boys.  What  bright 
splendid  pictures  Mr.  Brown  does  paint.  There  is  a  might 
and  power  in  the  expression  that  he  finds,  in  a  palette  of 
color.  I  return  his  parting  word  to  me,  his  hearty  "God 
bless  you." 

No.  16  has  long  been  a  portrait  painter  in  Boston. 
His  work  ranks  high,  and  goes  into  the  best  places.  I  do 
like  the  art  he  gets  in  his  pictures.  For  a  long  time  they 
will  be  in  Boston  as  memorials  of  people  of  character, 
and  souvenirs  of  remembrance  of  the  artist,  Mr.  J. 
Harvey  Young. 

No.  17  is  a  lady  who  has  painted  in  oil,  has  had  her 
pictures  reproduced  in  chromo.  Her  oil  studies  are 
always  pleasant.  She  makes  New  England  scenes  attrac- 
tive. Of  late  she  gives  the  most  of  her  time  to  crayon 
portraits.  I  see  them  well  spoken  of  in  the  papers,  and 
know  that  she  is  doing  excellent  work.  Her  pupils  and 
friends  will  testify  for  Miss  A.  M.  Gregory  as  a  faithful 
and  successful  artist. 

No.  18  is  an  artist,  and  self-appointed  art  critic.  I 
have  heard  unconcise  people  say,  a  picture  of  his  was 


348  THE   WILD   ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

"  good."  They  must  have  given  the  priest  something  to 
pay  for  lying.  Once  in  a  while  he  praises  a  picture  that 
he  did  not  paint,  but  usually  he  flays  them  alive.  I  never 
knew  him  to  sell  a  picture  for  cash.  Still,  with  his  art 
and  his  rich  relations,  he  manages  to  stub  along  somehow. 
As  I  do  not  wish  to  fight,  I  omit  the  name. 

No.  19  is  a  very  odd  number.  I  had  him  in  my  employ 
when  he  was  fourteen  years  old.  He  was  a  lean,  cadaver- 
ous, poor  little  boy.  The  freckles  on  his  face  were  more 
than  sporadic,  they  were  multitudinous  and  confluent. 
The  warts  on  his  hands  were  more  than  social,  they  were 
gregarious.  Some  were  on  foot  and  some  were  on  wart- 
back.  He  never  had  eaten  an  orange.  I  went  out  and 
got  him  one,  and  before  I  knew  it  he  had  eaten  the  peel 
also.  He  could  not  tell  the  time  of  day,  as  he  had  never 
been  where  clocks  were.  He  was  mild,  shy,  and  afraid. 
I  told  him  a  funny  story,  and  he  smiled.  I  told  him 
another,  and  a  funnier  one,  and  he  roared.  I  was  bound 
to  start  him.  Then  we  were  acquainted.  I  asked  him 
questions,  pumped  him  in  fact.  He  said  he  had  made  a 
sketch  in  ink  of  his  grandfather's  turning-lathe.  He 
showed  it.  There  was  merit  in  it.  He  told  me  how  he 
had  longed  for  paints,  to  paint  pictures.  I  bought  him  a 
kit  of  Winsor  and  Newton's  water-colors,  a  good  one. 
He  sat  up  late,  and  I  was  surprised  at  the  good  work  he 
had  done.  Soon  his  Avarts  were  all  gone,  and  the  freckles 
largely  gone  after  them.  Since  then  he  has  been  a 
designer  for  calico.  I  have  souvenirs  that  I  keep,  that 
came  out  of  his  waste  basket.  One  is  a  little  marine 
water-color.  Another  is  a  pictm*e  of  thistle  blossoms 
with  bees  on  them.  Those  bees  and  flies,  drawn  with  pen, 
are  fine.  I  held  the  picture  near  my  ear,  and  heard  a 


THE   AETISTS   OF   BOSTON.  349 

buzzing.  Perhaps  it  was  the  bees  in  the  picture.  I  have 
it  framed,  where  I  can  see  it  every  day.  He  can  draw  or 
paint  fruit  or  berries  admirably.  He  has  designed  and 
drawn  for  some  of  the  best  agricultural  papers  in  New. 
York.  He  has  made  new  headings  for  several.  He  can 
take  an  intricate  oil  painting  and  copy  it  good  enough  to 
puzzle  the  man  that  painted  it.  He  will  take  a  pen  and 
draw  blackberries  better  than  any  man  I  ever  saw.  He 
has  no  vices  that  I  ever  heard  of.  He  is  no  financier.  He 
has  more  genius  than  any  artist  I  ever  met.  His  bank 
account  is  so  small  that  he  can  put  it  "  all  in  his  eye,"  and 
wink  real  easy.  He  was  always  true,  kind,  and  grateful 
to  me,  and  I  earnestly  hope  that  God's  blessing  will 
come  to  lighten  his  life,  and  shine  brighter  unto  the 
perfect  day. 

No.  20  lives  in  Cambridgeport.  On  a  corner,  behind  a 
high  hedge,  among  trees  and  vines,  is  his  home  and  studio. 
His  pictures  are  mostly  landscape,  with  some  marines, 
flowers,  and  still-life.  His  trees  are  beauties.  His 
country  roads  and  waterfalls  please  me  much.  He  is 
past  seventy,  and  his  pictures  never  were  better.  He  had 
a  son,  Charlie,  an  artist,  who  died  at  North  Con  way.  He 
was  clever,  in  both  senses  of  the  word,  and  a  real  good 
fellow.  Whoever  has  a  picture  of  No.  20  gets  an  honest 
one,  of  an  artist  who  is  anxious  to  leave  behind  him 
work  true  to  nature,  and  a  credit  to  the  artist,  Mr.  John 
W.  A.  Scott. 

No.  21  has  lived  and  painted  in  Boston,  but  now  lives 
in  Maiden.  Fine  portraits,  pleasant  landscapes,  and  O 
such  grapes,  peaches,  cherries,  and  other  fruit.  I  give 
kind  regards  to  the  artist,  Mr.  H.  R.  Burdick. 

No.  22  was  a  pleasant  gentleman  and  a  fine  portrait 


350  THE  WILD  ARTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

painter.  "He  would  paint  the  picture  of  an  ordinary,  un- 
interesting person,  and,  while  making  it  a  good  likeness, 
would  idealize  it,  and  make  it  a  grand  picture.  It  was 
high  art.  I  have  three  of  his  portraits.  His  wife  and  he 
were  called  away  in  middle  life.  They  were  a  fine  couple. 
I  gladly  give  this  word  of  kindly  appreciation  to  the 
memory  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Edward  L.  Ouster. 

No.  23  is  an  absorbent.  He  will  get  all  he  can  out  of 
this  world,  and  give  just  as  little  as  he  can  for  it.  He 
can  paint  a  fine  portrait  or  a  bright  landscape.  If  he  can 
get  into  your  debt  he  will  stay  there.  The  idea  of  loving 
and  giving,  hoping  for  nothing  again,  never  entered  his 
mind.  The  more  I  see  of  the  rnan,  the  more  I  admire  — 
everybody  else.  He  will  never  learn  the  truth  of  that 
scripture,  "  There  is,  that  scattereth  and  yet  increaseth, 
and  there  is  that  withholdeth  more  than  is  meet,  and  it 
tendeth  to  poverty." 

No.  24  is  a  lady  artist,  and  all  her  surroundings  are 
as  pretty  as  pinks.  She  lives  in  Cambridgeport,  among 
the  pleasant,  sunny  houses  not  far  from  Brookline  bridge, 
and  the  views  of  Boston  and  Charles  River  from  her 
home  and  studio  are  fine.  She  paints  many  pictures  that 
I  like,  especially  flowers,  and  many  pupils  come  to  her. 
The  situation,  the  city,  the  skies,  and  the  river  must  be 
full  of  pleasant  suggestions  for  the  artist,  Mrs.  J.  A. 
Wiggin. 

No.  25  is  a  Boston  boy.  It  is  a  splendid  beginning. 
He  has  been  long  and  well  known  here.  He  paints  land- 
scape, marine,  game,  and  fish.  O  ever  so  many  things. 
He  is  always  good  to  me,  and  I  fully  believe  he  is  to 
everybody.  Every  summer  he  goes  sketching  far  and 
wide.  Now  in  Maine,  then  in  New  Hampshire,  and 


THE   ARTISTS   OF   BOSTON.  351 

again  in  Vermont,  or  in  New  York,  among  the  Adiron- 
dacks.  He  has  had  some  funny  experiences.  Once  he  was 
out  sketching  in  a  book.  A  curious  countryman  hailed  him 
with,  Hullo  there !  Practisin'  singin'  ?  No,  I  am  sketch- 
ing. Wai,  I  thought  it  looked  like  a  singing  book. 
Again  he  was  under  his  sun-umbrella,  sketching  in  oil. 
Hullo,  are  you  shadin'  a  sick  critter  there  ?  Not  much. 
Wai,  I  see  yer  had  yer  umbrella  spread,  an'  I  didn't  know 
but  you  was  shadin'  a  sick  critter.  Wot  ye  doin'  ?  I  am 
painting  a  picture.  Sell  'em  ?  Git  yer  livin'  out  of  'em  ? 
Yes,  I  do.  Wai,  now,  I  wouldn't  give  ten  cents  for  a 
barn  full  on  'em.  It  was  very  funny  from  the  artist's 
point  of  view  ;  but  a  countryman  need  not  be  a  brute. 
Another  time  he  was  in  New  Hampshire.  A  farmer 
came  out  laughing.  Ho,  ho,  ho,  my  wife  thought  you 
was  a  tramp,  that  had  been  stealin'  our  apples  ;  but  come 
to  find  out,  you  are  the  painter  feller  that  boards  down 
to  Fogg's.  Again  he  was  making  a  sketch.  A  farmer 
came  out  and  enquired.  Cipherin'  ?  Another  time  one 
enquired  of  another  who  it  was.  Is  he  crazy  ?  He 
walks  along  a  short  distance,  then  stops;  looks  around, 
stops  again ;  acts  real  funny.  Curiosity  was  relieved 
when  they  found  it  was  a  still-hunt  for  beauty.  On  the 
seashore  he  was  walking  along  with  his  sketch-box.  A  lot 
of  .boys  came  running  after  him.  "Be  you  the  man  that 
vaccinates  boys?"  Again  he  walked  out  with  his  box. 
"  Be  you  a  pedlar  ?"  No,  sir,  I  am  not.  Wai,  sir,  it  ain't 
nothin'  to  object  to.  John  Jacob  Astor  was  a  pedlar. 
An  artist  sketching  is  a  great  wonder  to  an  enquiring 
mind.  It  is  a  good  thing  to  find  a  large,  handsome  pick- 
erel, then  take  him  to  your  studio,  paint  his  picture,  and 
then  eat  him  for  dinner.  I  should  like  to  see  all  the 


352  THE  WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

pictures  that  this  industrious  prolific  painter  has  painted. 
Now  it  is  a  derby  hat  with  a  rat-terrier  in  it.  Then  it 
is  a  straw  hat  with  a  Malta  kitten,  in  it.  Now  a  fish,  a 
Florida  red  snapper,  in  the  gayest  of  color.  Now  shad  or 
salmon,  perch  or  smelts.  Landscapes  in  color,  or  black 
and  white,  like  a  steel  engraving.  Then  mountain,  wood- 
land, lake,  and  river  in  color.  If  any  shall  succeed  in 
being  a  better  artist,  they  will  find  it  hard  to  be  a  kinder, 
better  fellow  than  Mr.  Samuel  W.  Griggs. 

No.  26  is  a  marine  painter.  He  gets  as  much  of  the 
spirit  of  the  sea  in  his  pictures,  as  any  one  I  can  name. 
A  faithful  student,  and  very  popular.  I  like  his  pictures 
thoroughly.  Once  he  painted  a  large  picture  in  six 
hours,  and  sold  it  for  six  hundred  dollars.  I  need  not 
say  it  was  a  fine  picture,  but  it  was  a  risky  thing  to  do. 
A  house  with  one  coat  of  paint  on  it  is  not  a  well  painted 
house.  No  more  is  a  picture.  It  will  soon  grow  to  look 
thin.  He  wins  fame  and  fortune,  and  he  deserves  it 
well. 

No.  27  paints  portraits,  landscapes,  and  interiors.  He 
is  doing  excellent  work.  Lately  I  saw  an  interior,  a  par- 
lor scene,  with  a  lady  sitting,  reading.  It  was  an  elabo- 
rate picture,  and  a  study  of  mysterious  color.  Several 
portraits,  some  of  them  children,  were  being  done. 
There  is  power  and  promise  in  the  work  of  Mr,  J. 
Wagner. 

No.  28  was  born  near  the  Grand  Monadnock,  in  south- 
ern New  Hampshire.  His  summer  home  is  in  Peterboro. 
He  paints  cattle,  sheep,  and  landscape.  In  these  sketches 
I  am  giving  my  own  loves  and  opinions  only,  and  not  an 
art  criticism  at  all.  Neither  am  I  advertising  an  artist. 
There  is  nothing  mercenary  about  it.  I  have  known  this 


THE   ARTISTS   OF   BOSTON.  353 

man  since  he  began,  and  I  never  knew  aught  about  him 
that  was  not  the  kindest  and  best.  All  the  force  of  his 
life  has  been  to  be  the  best  artist  that  he  could  possibly 
be.  He  paints  cattle  and  sheep  splendidly.  If  I  wanted 
a  picture  of  New  England  cattle  or  sheep,  I  had  rather 
have  one  of  his,  than  any  artist  that  I  ever  saw  or  heard 
of,  not  even  excepting  Rosa  Bonheur,  or  Eugene  Ver- 
boeckhoven.  His  sheep  and  cattle  are  a  triumph  of  art. 
He  gets  large  prices  and  might  increase  on  them.  His 
pictures  get  the  best  places  in  the  exhibitions,  and  go 
into  the  best  houses.  To  the  man  and  the  artist  I  give 
my  kind  regards,  to  Mr.  Charles  F.  Pierce. 

No.  29  is  a  fine  lady  artist.  She  paints  airily,  ideally, 
admirably.  Can  I  criticise  her  ?  Yes,  I  can ;  but  I 
won't.  She  has  two  always  apparent  ruling  motives. 
One  is  to  paint  the  best  possible  picture,  and  the  other  is 
to  get  the  largest  number  of  shekels  for  it.  I  envy  her 
her  art,  and  give  it  the  continued  assurance  of  my  most 
distinguished  consideration. 

No.  30  paints  marine  pictures.  If  he  could  arise,  as  an 
artist,  to  the  level  he  has  attained  as  a  kind  good  fellow, 
he  would  get  the  highest  bounce  he  ever  got  in  his  life. 
Still  he  gets  about  twelve  or  fifteen  hundred  a  year,  out 
of  it.  We  cannot  all  be  Raphaels.  It  is  better  to  be  a 
saint  and  an  artist  of  moderate  merit,  than  to  be  a 
supreme  artist  and  a  Satan.  I  cannot  paint  a  picture  all 
iu  white  and  cadmium.  I  cannot  declare  all  artists  Claudes 
and  Murillos.  This  gives  me  some  fine  shadows  between 
the  high  lights. 

No.  31  is  a  poor  artist.  Poor  every  way.  He  was 
born  out  of  a  poor  family,  and  I  think  it  would  have  been 
a  fortune  to  him  if  he  had  never  been  born  at  all.  He 


354  THE   WILD  ARTIST  IN   BOSTON. 

pays  a  poor  rent  for  a  poor  studio,  when  he  pays  it  at  all. 
He  paints  a  poor  picture,  when  he  paints  at  all,  with  poor 
paints,  on  a  poor  canvas ;  and  it  sells  for  a.  poor  price 
when  it  sells  at  all ;  and  the  buyer,  when  there  is  one,  is 
a  poor  judge  of  pictures,  and  makes  a  poor  trade.  This 
poor  artist  lives  in  a  poor  way,  dresses  poor,N  and  has  a 
poor  look  ahead.  He  sometimes  wonders  why  this  world 
is  such  a  poor  place  for  him ;  and  perhaps,  I  cannot  say 
for  sure,  he  makes  a  poor  effort  to  improve  things.  But 
it  is  such  a  poor  effort,  of  course  it  has  a  poor  result.  I 
am  sorry  to  hang  such  a  poor  portrait  among  such  rich 
color,  but  we  are  not  all  brigadier-generals.  Some  must 
be  high  privates. 

No.  32  is  a  young  lady,  pretty  as  pinks,  and  sweet 
enough  to  cut  up  for  a  salad.  She  lives  out  of  town, 
coming  in  to  take  a  lesson  once  or  twice  a  week.  She 
paints  a  real  good  picture,  so  good  that  you  would  marvel 
at  it.  She  is  engaged  to  a  fine  young  man,  and  I  should 
like  to  kill  him.  I  know  I  ought  not  to,  for  he  must  be 
nice,  or  she  would  not  tolerate  him.  I  cannot  really 
blame  him  for  wishing  to  forsake  father  and  mother  to 
become  one  flesh.  But  it  cuts  me  up  all  the  same.  They 
will  please  receive  the  old  beaver's  blessing. 

No.  33  was  born  in  Ohio,  in  1841.  His  home  and  home 
studio  are  in  Hyde  Park,  Mass.  He  has  been  in  Europe, 
in  all  about  seven  years,  studying  with  the  best  masters. 
He  paints  wonderful  pictures.  When  the  Mechanics' 
Association  and  Boston  Art  Club  buy  a  man's  pictures, 
it  is  a  sign  that  he  has  a  standing  in  art.  His  autumn 
landscapes  and  twilight  skies  are  very  fine.  He  has 
plenty  of  pupils  and  paints  some  portraits.  One  of  his 
pictures  is  in  my  sitting-room,  where  I  see  it  every  day. 


THE  ARTISTS   OF  BOSTON.  355 

My  wife  has  voted  unanimously,  that  she  shall  keep  it 
there.  That  suits  me.  He  has  fine  success  in  art,  and  I 
never  heard  even  an  art  critic  dare  to  criticise  him  as  a 
man.  If  the  prayers  of  the  righteous  prevail,  Mr.  John 
J.  Enneking  will  live  long  and  be  happy.  It  is  a  pleasure 
to  see  what  a  power  he  is  in  art. 

No.  34  paints  cattle,  sheep,  and  landscape.  He  has  had 
very  successful  sales,  has  been  in  Europe  and  California. 
He  has  a  fine  standing  among  Boston  artists.  His  late 
exhibition  was  interesting  and  popular.  It  takes  merit 
to  attain  a  position  in  art  like  Mr.  J.  Foxcroft  Cole. 
Next  to  the  poet,  the  artist  lives  in  the  work  he  leaves 
behind  him.  The  gift  of  expression,  always  made  valu- 
able by  development,  is  one  great  gift,  whether  in  con- 
struction, invention,  enunciation,  or  delineation.  But 
words  do  not  express  the  thought.  They  fit  ideas  as 
sabots  do  feet.  They  are  wooden  and  clumsy.  The 
thought  is  beautiful,  flexible,  and  graceful.  Happy  is  the 
man  who  can  give  it  expression.  Happy  is  the  artist  who 
can  show  the  beauty  pictures  in  his  mind.  Of  course  I 
cannot  know  many  of  the  artists  of  a  great  city.  But 
what  I  have  known  of  them  has,  in  general,  been  very 
pleasant.  Indeed  I  think,  as  a  class,  they  are  the  most 
enjoyable  people  alive.  One  more  picture  and  I  am  done. 
Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  have  not  spoken  to  win  your  ap- 
plause, neither  have  I  set  down  aught  in  malice.  Every 
word  I  have  spoken  has  been  carefully  written,  well  con- 
sidered, and  is  true.  A  mean  person,  low,  drunken,  dirty, 
or  selfish,  will  be  that  although  he  may  try  to  do  the 
noblest  work.  O  the  pleasant  people  I  have  met  as 
artists.  I  give  them  kindest  regards.  If  one  utterly 
lacks  self-control,  woe  is  for  him,  unless  he  assert  him- 


356  THE   WILD   AKTIST  IK  BOSTON. 

self.  A  runaway  horse  is  poor  property,  but  alas,  for  a 
runaway  soul.  Once  in  a  while  we  do  see  ojie. 

No.  35  was  one  of  the  best  marine  painters  I  ever  saw, 
perhaps  quite  the  best.  O  his  mighty  ships,  his  ocean 
waves.  He  was  a  true  genius,  good  size,  florid,  handsome, 
able  to  sell  his  pictures  readily  and  for  good  prices.  I 
have  seen  a  picture  of  his  marked  two  thousand  dollars. 
He  might  have  been  immensely  rich,  and  have  gone  into 
the  most  honored  society.  I  can  go  where  his  pictures 
occupy  splendid  places.  They  are  magnificent.  But  he 
wasted  his  talent  and  his  young  life.  He  died  of  a  com- 
plication of  everything  that  he  could  blame  himself  or  a 
woman  for.  The  artists  subscribed  money,  some  of 
them,  with  great  self-denial,  and  buried  him.  More,  they 
bore  his  coffin  to  a  little  chapel,  and  a  dreadful  office  it 
was,  and  one  they  will  not  soon  forget.  I  am  sorry  to 
bring  such  a  picture  before  you,  but  I  had  a  motive,  and 
I  must  be  true.  And  I  have  a  little  more  to  say,  and 
-  perhaps  I  do  an  unpardonable  thing,  but  I  do  it  with  a 
kind  loving  heart. 

There  is  an  artist  now  in  Boston,  that  is  going  down 
to  a  drunkard's  grave.  He  is  a  good  artist  and  a  gener- 
ous man.  He  only  lacks  the  saving  grace  of  self-control. 
I  never  was  intimate  with  him,  and  so  I  have  no  influence 
over  him.  I  hope  some  of  you  have.  His  condition  is 
well  known  to  many.  I  should  not  be  surprised  to  hear 
of  his  death  at  any  time.  I  saw  him  yesterday,  almost 
on  the  rocks.  I  earnestly  entreat  of  any  of  you,  that  have 
any  influence,  to  use  it  at  once,  to  do  the  noblest  deed  of 
your  lives,  to  rescue  poor  Frank  Wilkie. 

The  address  was  done  and  the  suspense  was  painful. 
What  was  it  to  the  man  behind  the  screen  ? 


THE  ARTISTS   OF   BOSTON.  357 

Roy  Bartlctt  took  the  stand  and  for  a  moment  was  un- 
able to  control  himself.  He  began :  "  My  friends,  I  am 
glad  for  the  kind  words  that  our  brother  has  spoken. 
With  such  as  he,  art  and  heart  are  near  together.  And 
I  am  glad  to  tell  him,  and  you  all,  of  something  that  will 
rejoice  your  hearts.  "What  our  brother  has  said,  was  true, 
yesterday  morning.  But  now,  Frank  Wilkie  is  in  the 
hands  of  devoted  friends,  and  better  still,  has  voluntarily 
signed  a  solemn  obligation,  by  his  sacred  honor,  by  all  he 
hopes  for  in  earth  or  heaven,  by  the  sacred  memory  of 
his  mother,  that  he  will  never  use  intoxicating  liquors  or 
tobacco  again,  while  he  lives." 

Roy  Bartlett  had  made  a  sensation.  Again  and  again 
there  came  a  storm  of  applause,  until  weariness  compelled 
them  to  cease. 

Then  the  artist  who  had  addressed  them  said,  "  I  feel, 
to  thank  God.  I  should  like  to  sing,  '  Praise  God,  from 
whom  all  blessings  flow.'  " 

It  was  done.  Their  thankfulness  found  expression. 
There  were  plenty  of  splendid  singers  present.  They 
sang  that  glorious  song  of  praise,  and  Frank  Wilkie  sat 
with  bowed  head  and  heard  it  all.  The  hour  was  late, 
but  they  felt  thankful. 

Handel's  "  Hallelujah  Chorus  "  was  called  for.  Miss 
Warren  had  some  copies  in  books  and  they  sang  it  with 
a  will.  Then  the  people  in  the  street  cheered,  which 
pleased  the  coterie. 

A  gentleman  arose  and  said,  "  I  should  like  to  hear 
this  company  sing,  'We  won't  go  home  till  morning.'" 

The  idea  took  at  once.  Mr.  Bartlett  called  Mr.  Webb 
to  take  charge  of  it  and  sing  the  second  stanza,  "  For  we 
are  all  jolly  good  fellows,"  if  ordered. 


358  THE  WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

Mr.  Webb  asked  Miss  Graham  to  preside  at  the  piano. 
Said  he,  "  I  once  heard  this  man-song,  sung  by  a  wagon 
load  of  girls  from  a  female  seminary,  and  they  sung  it. 
Dolce  andante  sostenuto.  I  have  not  got  over  it  yet. 
We  will  sing  it  to  old  'Malbrook,'  and  please  give  it 
staccato,  with  force  and  precision.  Sing  big,  and  be- 
tween the  stanzas,  Miss  Graham,  please  give  us  a  fancy 
interlude." 

They  arose  as  Miss  Graham  gave  a  line  of  the  roister- 
ing old  song.  The  director  was  wide  awake.  If  you 
have  ever  heard  it  sung  by  a  good  smart  chorus,  as  I  did 
that  night,  you  have  heard  a  good  thing,  well  done. 
Then  came  Miss  Graham's  interlude.  I  heard  a  graphic 
young  man  telling  it  the  next  day.  He  said :  "  I  tell  you 
she  did  everlastingly  maul  that  piano."  At  the  close  of 
the  interlude,  her  notes  climbed  by  pleasant  fugues  to 
the  top  of  the  highest,  and  prettily  trilling  there,  she 
came  lightly  and  sweetly  by  the  common  chords,  alterna- 
ting with  funny  little  capers,  down  to  the  tonic,  and  then 
she  looked  up  for  orders.  She  might  have  had  all  the 
applause  she  wanted,  but  it  was  not  permitted.  The 
order,  Ready,  sing,  came  short  and  sharp,  and  "  For  we 
are  all  jolly  good  fellows  "  was  music  and  song,  truth  and 
poetry.  The  parlors  were  soon  empty,  and  Frank  Wilkie 
was  conducted  to  Roy's  chamber. 

He  said :  "  Mr.  Bartlett,  how  pleasant  it  is  to  be  loved 
and  honored  as  you  are." 

"  You  can  be,"  said  Roy. 

"  I  will  try,"  said  he. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

A   WHITE    MAN. 

THE  next  morning,  the  first  train  bore  Roy  and  Frank 
"Wilkie,  with  color  and  canvases,  to  Dover,  New  Hamp- 
shire, and  Frank  was  left  in  charge  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Bartlett,  with  a  full  statement  of  the  case.  He  was  cared 
for,  guarded,  made  happy,  and  at  home.  He  was  cher- 
ished and  prayed  for,  and  it  did  not  hurt  him  a  bit.  He 
painted  a  good-size  picture  of  the  homestead,  to  begin 
with,  a  daylight  scene.  When  it  was  done  he  had  been 
so  impressed  with  his  surroundings,  that  he  painted  the 
same  scene,  the  Bartlett  home,  by  moonlight.  There  was 
the  same  light  in  the  sitting-room  windows,  and  in  Roy's 
chamber.  There  was  the  full  moon  above  it  all,  and  the 
smoke  from  the  large  chimney  came  up  in  the  form  of  an 
angel,  with  shadowy  arms,  held  out  in  blessing.  The 
bright  moon  was  in  a  clear  space,  but  just  outside  of  that 
were  clouds  suggesting  cherubs'  heads,  like  the  angel 
arch  in  Raphael's  "  Madonna  di  San  Sisto."  In  one  cor- 
ner, on  a  rock,  was  printed,  "  The  Angel  of  Peace." 

Frank  Wilkie  worked  like  a  beaver.  He  went  to 
church  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bartlett,  and  it  did  him  good. 
Mrs.  Bartlett  knit  him  stockings,  and  made  him  shirts, 
and  Mr.  Bartlett  bought  him  a  new  suit  of  clothes.  He 
learned  to  milk,  and  did  so  morning  and  night.  When 
the  two  pictures  were  finished  and  dry  enough,  Frank 

359 


360  THE   WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

gave  them  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bartlett.  He  said  he  should 
like  to  have  them  go  to  Boston  for  Roy  to  see.  They 
did  go,  and  were  shown,  handsomely  framed,  at  the  next 
Art  Coterie. 

Then  Frank  wrote  a  letter,  thanking  all  his  friends  in 
the  Art  Coterie,  for  their  sympathy  and  kindness,  and 
Roy  read  it  at  the  time  he  called  attention  to  the  pict- 
ures. It  made  the  best  of  thankful  feeling.  Then  it 
was  not  long  before  he  sold  some  pictures  in  Dover. 
The  dollars  began  to  come  in.  As  he  had  no  vices,  they 
stayed  in.  He  asked  permission  to  prolong  his  stay. 
He  would  help  milk,  would  work  some  on  the  farm,  and 
if  he  could  stay  until  next  October,  he  would  help  do  the 
haying.  He  had  never  found  a  place  that  had  so  much 
of  peace  and  God's  blessing.  The  author  used  to  think 
so  himself,  when  he  went  there.  Or  he  would  pay  cash 
for  his  board  and  help  some  beside. 

Mr.  Bartlett  refused  his  cash  but  said  he  could  stay, 
and  help  a  little.  So  Frank  Wilkie  was  changed  from 
what  he  was,  and  stayed  all  summer.  He  sent  money  to 
Roy  to  pay  his  back  rent,  and  the  janitor  stored  his  few 
things  at  a  low  rate.  Frank  sent  pictures  to  people  in 
Boston,  who  were  glad  to  get  them  at  the  price.  One 
day  Eli  Bertram  was  in  Roy's  studio.  He  said  he  had 
no  relations  living.  Roy  expressed  his  sympathy.  He 
went  further.  He  said,  "Mr.  Bertram,  you  have  been 
good  to  me.  Give  me  a  chance  to  serve  you  sometime. 
If  you  are  ever  -sick,  or  in  need  of  a  friend,  let  me  know 
it,  and  I  will  come  to  your  assistance.  Don't  hesitate  to 
send  for  me,  day  or  night." 

"  I  give  you  the  same  permission,"  said  Miss  Graham. 

"  God  bless  you  both,"  said  Eli  Bertram.     "  I  think, 


A  WHITE  MAN.  361 

however,"  said  he,  "  that  I  have  means  enough  for  all  I 
shall  want,  and  the  folks  I  board  with  are  good  to  me. 
I  board  with  a  widow,  who  has  an  aged  mother,  and  it  is 
home  for  me,  and  help  for  both  of  them.  But  as  I  said, 
I  will  let  you  know  if  I  need  you." 

Then  Roy  showed  Mr.  Bertram  Frank  Wilkie's  pict- 
ures, and  told  him  the  whole  story.  The  old  man  was 
pleased  enough.  Eli  Bertram  had  the  name  of  being  a 
close-fisted  man.  Solomon  Shavin  would  have  testified 
to  it.  But  he  tried  faithfully  to  do  the  most  good  he 
could.  He  had  supported  this  widow,  Mrs.  Francis, 
whom  he  boarded  with,  and  it  hud  made  a  home  for  both 
her  and  her  mother ;  and  without  it,  they  might  have 
both  gone  to  the  almsnouse.  He  loved  those  that  loved 
him.  He  would  have  loved  more,  but  they  would  not. 

When  Roy  told  him  the  story  of  Frank  Wilkie,  he 
was  glad,  and  taking  twenty-five  dollars  from  his  pocket- 
book,  he  said,  "  here,  Mr.  Bartlett,  send  this  to  him,  and 
tell  him  to  paint  as  good  a  picture  of  your  homestead  as 
he  can  afford  to  for  that,  and  send  it  to  me.  And  tell 
him  to  come  and  get  boarded  where  I  do,  when  he  re- 
turns, and  I  will  help  him  sell  his  pictures." 

So  Frank  Wilkie  had  a  splendid  summer,  made  friends 
and  money  and  grew  in  favor  with  God  and  man.  He 
also  made  up  his  mind  to  go  to  board  with  Eli  Bertram, 
when  he  came  back  in  the  fall,  but  it  was  not  to  be. 
Mr.  Bertram's  health  declined  visibly.  He  called  on 
Jonathan  Strong  and  made  his  will.  No  one  else  knew 

O 

it,  and  although  a  copy  was  left  with  Mr.  Strong,  the 
original  was  left  in  his  safe,  in  his  boarding  mistress's 
parlor.  He  told  her  of  it  later,  and  said  he  had  left  her 
something.  Roy  and  Miss  Graham  came  often  to  see 


362  THE  WILD   ARTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

him,  and  Roy  was  with  him  when  he  passed  away.  And 
Eli  Bertram's  will  was  a  surprise.  Not  so  much  in  what 
he  owned,  as  in  what  he  did  with  it.  He  owned  ten 
brick  houses  in  one  block,  worth  over  ten  thousand  dol- 
lars each,  beside  considerable  other  real  and  personal 
property.  He  gave  the  houses  to  these  five  persons,  for 
their  own  use  forever.  Two  to  Roy  Bartlett,  two  to 
Miss  Graham,  two  to  Edric  Lyman,  two  to  Frank  Wilkie 
with  a  proviso,  that  he  kept  his  obligation,  otherwise  it 
went  to  his  residuary  legatee,  and  two  to  his  pastor. 
Roy  and  Edric  Lyman  were  to  be  executors,  and  Roy 
was  residuary  legatee.  He  also  left  the  house  and  a 
package  of  government  bonds  to  Mrs.  Francis,  his  house- 
keeper, the  widow  that  he  had  boarded  so  long  with. 
She  was  worthy  of  it.  They  were  all  surprised  every 
way.  There  was  no  one  to  dispute  the  will. 

Now  Roy  was  well  situated.  He  congratulated  Miss 
Graham  and  she  thanked  him.  Frank  Wilkie  gave 
thanks  to  Roy  for  it  all.  Well  he  might.  There  are 
some  sponges,  that  you  may  waste  all  human  and  divine 
love  upon,  and  they  will  never  love  you  back  again.  Eli 
Bertram  was  none  of  that,  neither  was  Frank  Wilkie,  or 
Edric  Lyman,  or  Roy  Bartlett,  or  Mary  Graham.  I  do  not 
know  which  it  was  that  loved  first,  but  I  do  know  that 
the  love  was  there,  and  one  of  them  at  least  could  say, 
"  he  first  loved  me." 

The  next  and  last  meeting  of  the  Art  Coterie  was  a 
short  one  with  more  sketches  of  Boston  artists  and  plenty 
of  music.  Of  course  Boston  artists  were  not  half  repre- 
sented. Mrs.  Warren  received  several  pictures,  as  sou- 
venirs of  the  artists.  There  was  a  genuine  regret  when 
they  sang  "  Auld  Lang  Syne,"  at  the  close  of  the 


A  WHITE  MAN.  363 

evening.     Roy  had  hosts  of  friends,  and  a  kind  thought 
for  all. 

One  day  he  had  a  letter  from  home  which  made  him 
laugh.  His  mother  had  written  what  they  were  all  doing, 
how  Frank  Wilkie  had  prospered,  how  industrious  he 
was,  and  all  the  news.  Then  she  wrote  that  Canis  Major 
wanted  to  write  a  word,  and  as  he  had  just  come  out  of 
the  meadow,  she  got  a  good  impression  of  his  big,  muddy 
paw,  which  she  dried,  and  added,  "  Come  home,  Roy," 
as  the  dog's  invitation.  Eoy  also  got  this  letter,  — 

"  DEAR  FRIEND  ROY,  —  I  have  heard  from  your  father  of  your 
good  fortune,  and  my  wife  and  I  are  rejoiced  indeed.  My 
father  owned  a  large  house  here  in  Dover,  which  did  not 
pay  very  well.  I  have  taken  it,  and  fitted  it  up  as  a  hotel 
and  boarding  house.  We  are  doing  well  from  the  start. 
Father  gives  me  the  rent  and  supplies  from  the  farm,  and  I 
give  him  a  part  of  the  money.  We  have  splendid  sings,  and 
plenty  of  company.  McDuffie's  Hotel'will  welcome  you  at  any 
time.  When  you  are  married,  please  come  and  pass  your 
honeymoon  with  us.  We  have  plenty  of  horses  and  carnages, 
and  you  shall  have  the  best  of  everything,  free.  I  am  glad  of 
what  you  have  done  in  art,  and  in  property.  Now  please  let 
us  see  you  in  Dover,  and  we  will  have  no  end  of  a  good  time. 
My  wife  sends  her  love  to  you,  and  so  do  I. 
"  Ever  your  friend, 

"JEAN  McDUFFIE." 

"  He  is  a  true  heart,"  said  Roy,  as  he  folded  up  the 
letter.  "  He  lost  his  self-will  in  the  Isinglass  River,  and 
since  then  he  has  been  grateful  and  loving." 

Somehow  Miss  Graham  did  not  seem  elated  over  Eli 
Bertram's  splendid  gift,  and  Roy  sat  down  to  consider  it. 
He  was  truly  grateful  to  the  old  man.  Was  Miss  Graham 
cold-hearted  ?  Then  he  thought  how  ready  she  was  to 


364  THE  WILD   ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

give  money  to  all  who  needed  it,  even  more  than  Roy 
thought  best.  Yes,  indeed  ;  and  how  she  pleaded  with 
tears  to  save  Frank  Wilkie.  No,  she  was  not  cold-hearted, 
sure.  She  was  not.  If  she  was  not  elated  over  wealth, 
that  was  virtue  and  common  sense.  She  was  not  ex- 
travagant. She  had  not  begun  to  tell  what  she  would  do 
or  buy.  Her  expenses  were  not  increased.  She  dressed 
well,  but  modestly.  Nothing  loud  in  color.  He  tried  to 
criticise  her,  and  he  began  to  feel  ashamed  of  himself 
inside  for  doing  it.  If  any  one  had  said  a  word  against 
Mary  Graham,  he  would  have  resented  it  hotly.  And 
she,  just  quiet  and  faithful,  helped  his  pupils,  and  walked 
in  Roy  Bartlett's  mind,  the  bright  eclipse  of  any  and  all 
other  women.  He  mused.  He  looked  with  his  mind's 
eye,  Horatio,  at  her,  from  every  point  of  view,  in  every 
relation  of  life,  for  time  and  eternity,  and  the  little 
modest  woman  unconsciously  bore  the  test. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

SOLOMON   IN   ALL   HIS    GLORY. 

THE  winter  was  gone,  and  it  was  May.  Roy  was  well 
situated  financially.  He  had  a  good  bank  account.  With 
the  brick  store  property,  which  came  by  the  kindness  of 
Mr.  S.  R.  Knights,  and  the  two  brick  houses  that  Eli 
Bertram  left  him,  he  was  having  an  assured  income  of 
twenty-five  hundred  a  year,  beside  what  his  art  brought 
him,  which  was  no  small  sum.  He  had  not  increased  his 
style  of  living.  His  home  with  Mrs.  Warren  was  good 
enough.  It  was  the  middle  of  May. 

One  morning  Miss  Graham  came  in  and  Roy  asked  "if 
it  was  not  time  to  consider  their  trip  to  Dover,  to  see 
the  apple  trees  in  bloom." 

She  said,  "she  was  ready,  when  the  best  time  came." 

"  That  is  what  I  am  looking  for,"  said  Roy.  "  The 
Whitsunday  is  about  the  twentieth  of  May.  Suppose 
we  go  on  Thursday,  before  the  Whitsunday." 

She  said,  "  yes." 

"  Can  you  stay  a  week  ?  " 

"  She  coutd  if  it  was  suitable,  and  nothing  happened  at 
home." 

So  it  was  agreed.  They  took  the  morning  train  for 
Dover.  The  pupils  had  been  notified  and  the  studio  door 
said :  "  Gone  sketching  for  a  week." 

365 


366  'THE  WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

When  the  battle  of  Lexington  was  fought,  on  the  nine- 
teenth of  April,  the  peach  and  cherry  trees  were  in  full 
bloom,  and  it  was  so  hot  a  day  that  some  were  overcome 
with  the  heat.  A  hundred  years  later,  I  went  to  Lexing- 
ton, and  saw  General  Grant  at  the  centennial.  It  was  a 
cold  raw  day.  Our  party  went  out  in  the  woods  and 
made  a  fire  to  eat  our  lunch  by.  We  saw  several  small 
snowdrifts,  and  although  our  party  were  all  born  Yankees, 
yet  we  were  bluenoses,  every  one.  Not  a  blossom  or  a 
sign  of  one.  But  the  Whitsunday,  a  month  later,  is  quite 
sure  to  show  the  apple-blossoms,  that  surpass  Solomon  in 
all  his  glory. 

Mr.  Bartlett  met  Roy  and  Mary  at  the  station.  He 
had  killed  the  fatted  calf,  he  said,  and  the  prodigal  would 
get  some  veal  worth  eating.  Mother  Bartlett  was  happy 
again  now  Roy  had  come  home,  and  Miss  Graham  was 
made  at  home,  and  free  from  all  restraint  at  once.  Canis 
Major  rejoiced  with  joy  unspeakable  to  see  Roy  and  Miss 
Graham,  whom  he  remembered  well.  Frank  Wilkie  was 
there,  and  it  was  good  to  see  how  handsome  he  had 
grown.  The  great  orchard  was  becoming  a  cloud  of  pink 
and  white  blossoms.  In  the  afternoon  the  three  artists 
walked  out  around  the  house  and  garden.  Canis  Major 
and  Grimalkin  went  too;  Frank  Wilkie  carried  Grimalkin. 
A  man  that  does  not  love  cat  or  dog  is  a  pig  of  a  man 
any  way.  Roy  showed  Miss  Graham  where  Will  Glanco 
had  jumped  out  at  him,  and  struck  him  with  a  club.  The 
scar  still  showed.  They  were  all  as  pleased  and  happy  as 
Canis  Major  and  Grimalkin,  but  Roy  and  Miss  Graham 
were  almost  too  quiet.  Frank  Wilkie  noticed  it,  but  did 
not  remark.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bartlett  were  in  the  house. 
Mrs.  Bartlett  was  fixing  up  something  nice  for  tea,  and 


SOLOMON   IN   ALL  HIS   GLORY.  3G7 

he  was  all  around,  playful,  paying  attention  to  her, 
and  courting  his  wife  over  again.  "  What  is  the  matter 
with  Roy  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Well,  what  is  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Why,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett,  "he  is  as  solemn  as  an  owl. 
He  has  not  smiled  once  since  he  came." 

"Don't  you  know  what  ails  him?"  asked  mother  Bart- 
lett, as  she  elevated  the  range  of  her  specs,  and  looked 
her  old  husband-lover  in  the  face. 

"Liver  complaint?"  he  asked. 

"Liver  cum-granny,"  she  said.  "Don't  you  know  bet- 
ter than  that?  you  old  bunch  of  sweetness.  It  is  a  heart 
disease,  and  it  will  take  a  woman  about  the  size  of  Miss 
Graham  to  cure  it." 

He  laughed.  He  said  he  was  getting  a  little  mixed. 
He  could  not  tell  art  from  heart,  at  all.  There  seemed  to 
be  no  boundary  line  between  them  at  all.  So  Roy's 
father  and  mother  kept  up  an  awful  thinking,  and  Roy 
was  not  a  bit  the  wiser  for  it. 

Take  your  excursion  the  first  fair  day,  you  can  let  it 
rain  any  time.  So  the  next  morning  was  sunny  and 
pretty.  They  had  an  easy-riding  top  buggy,  with  rubber 
blanket  and  robe  ;  then  they  were  ready  for  casualties  and 
showers.  Roy  and  Miss  Graham  took  sketching  books, 
and  were  off  at  eight  o'clock.  They  took  the  road 
through  Barrington,  over  Waldron's  Hill,  by  Jonathan 
Drew's  and  Gilman  Hall's,  past  the  old  Judge  Hale  place, 
and  by  the  old  Doctor  Woodbury  farm,  and  so  on  to 
Bow  Pond.  They  call  it  Bow  Lake  now.  Roy  told  the 
names  of  the  farms  as  he  drove  past,  and  they  made  an 
outline  occasionally.  It  was  a  succession  of  exclamations. 
Oh !  see  this,  or,  Oh !  see  that,  very  often.  I  have  often 


368  THE  WILD  ARTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

done  the  same  joimiey,  with  an  artist,  but  never  with  so 
interesting  an  artist  as  Roy  had. 

What  a  beauty  New  Hampshire  is  when  the  apple  trees 
are  in  bloom.  They  kept  to  the  east  of  Bow  Pond,  after 
passing  the  village,  and  when  they  came  to  a  fine  view  of 
the  lake,  which  is  three  miles  long,  they  found  a  place  to 
dine.  The  horse  had  his  harness  off,  to  cool  off.  Roy 
brought  a  pail  of  spring  water  instead  of  champagne. 
He  took  the  supplies  out  of  the  carriage,  and,  with  a  tree 
piled  with  pink  apple  blossoms  low  down  over  their  heads, 
they  sat  down  to  dine.  Cold  coffee,  bread  and  butter, 
fatted  calf,  apple  pie,  doughnuts  and  cheese,  with  honey 
in  the  comb,  do  not  amount  to  any  great  self-denial,  and 
they  began  to  be  merry;  that  is  —  no,  they  didn't.  They 
were  as  quiet  and  steady  as  two  people  frequently  are  in 
same  condition.  They  ate  their  dinners,  and  were  grate- 
ful to  all  who  had  contributed  to  them.  The  horse  was 
rested,  and  entertained  as  well.  These  two  people 
were  satisfied  to  be  together,  for  this  visit  of  Miss 
Graham's  might  be  the  last  forever.  They  were  very 
pleasant  to  each  other,  but  there  was  no  fun,  no  laugh, 
from  the  rising  of  the  sun  to  the  going  down  thereof.  It 
was  a  ride,  it  was  beauty,  it  was  apple  blossoms,  O  hand- 
some as  paradise.  It  was  nature,  it  was  art;  and  if  it 
was  another  thing,  the  Lord  only  knew  it,  or  what  it  was. 
They  did  not.  They  returned  by  the  green  hill  road,  and 
they  had  found  a  long,  quiet,  happy  day. 

Sam  Ellet  and  his  wife  came  over  in  the  evening.  He 
was  as  full  of  fun  as  he  could  stick.  His  wife  tried  to 
suppress  him  a  little,  but  he  let  out  another  joke,  that 
made  her  snort  right  out  with  laughter.  Then  Roy 
laughed  too,  and  Miss  Graham  also.  But  this  was  after 


SOLOMON  IN  ALL  HIS  GLOEY.  369 

sunset,  mind  you ;  so  I  have  told  you  no  lies.  Sam  was 
solemn  enough  the  night  he  walked  into  the  Hoskins 
mudhole.  But  he  outlived  it. 

Saturday  it  rained.  They  all  stayed  at  home,  and  Jean 
McDuffie  and  his  wife  came  up.  Roy  was  his  mother's 
boy  again. 

On  Sunday  they  all  went  to  the  brick  Orthodox  church, 
in  two  teams.  It  is  a  good  way  to  spend  Sunday.  I  have 
been  there  myself  many  times,  in  the  days  when  Rev. 
Homer  Barrows  preached  there.  Miss  Graham  just 
enjoyed  her  visit,  every  minute.  Such  good,  safe,  clean, 
white  people.  They  will  labor  for  you.  They  will  pray 
for  you.  Let  them. 

Monday  morning  they  took  to  the  i-oad  again.  This 
time  they  went  by  Hicks's  Hill,  and  straight  to  Lee  Hill. 
O  the  apple  blossoms.  Many  a  tree  was  one  mighty  and 
splendid  bouquet.  O  the  glorious  apple-trees  !  They  went 
through  Wadleys  Falls  village,  and  Roy  told  her  stories 
of  farms  and  people  as  they  passed.  Wilson's  mills  had 
formerly  been  Bartlett's  mills.  They  kept  on  through 
New  Market.  They  went  slowly,  for  there  was  much  to 
see.  There  was  the  bridge  over  the  Lamprey  River;  on 
the  eastern  end,  is  where  a  plank  was  laid  across,  to  save 
distance,  and  one  Sunday  evening  Mary  Rendall,  while 
returning  from  meeting,  fell  off  and  was  drowned,  fifty 
years  ago  and  more.  On  the  hill,  a  few  rods  east  of  the 
bridge,  is  a  huge  rock,  close  beside  the  road,  with  a  large 
dark  stain  on  it,  on  the  side  of  the  rock  toward  New 
Market.  Roy  told  her  the  Indian  legend,  how  a  young 
settler  had  come  and  built  his  house  near,  and  they 
ordered  him  to  leave,  but  he  would  not  go.  They  shot 
him,  and  killed  his  wife  and  child  on  the  top  of  the  great 


370  THE  WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

rock,  dashing  the  child  in  pieces  where  the  great  dark 
stain  now  is.  The  stain  is  still  there,  and  every  one  sees 
it  as  he  crosses  the  bridge  from  New  Market  to  Durham. 
Beautiful  trees.  The  river  glimmers  through  them. 

They  had  their  dinner  in  a  quiet  place  near  the  road. 
They  had  a  twenty-mile  ride,  and  so  much  beauty  to  see, 
that  their  eyes  were  tired  with  seeing.  But  they  got 
home  just  in  time  for  a  cup  of  tea,  and  Mother  Bartlett's 
cooking. 

There  were  several  people  here,  doing  some  tall  think- 
ing. Another  day  they  took  the  carryall,  and  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Bartlett  went  with  Roy  and  Miss  Graham,  first  to 
Garrison  Hill,  then  to  Great  Falls,  and  Salmon  Falls. 
The  omnipresent  apple-blossoms  followed  them  all  the 
way.  Solomon  did  have  some  luxuries,  but  there  were 
three  things  that  he  owned  right  up  he  could  never 
understand,  and  here  was  Roy,  a  Boston  artist,  trying  to 
find  out  the  hardest  one.  No  wonder  it  stuck  him.  Mr. 
Bartlett  talked  as  they  rode,  and  Roy  and  Miss  Graham 
had  the  back  seat  all  to  themselves.  It  was  a  Quaker 
meeting. 

They  had  two  days  more.  Roy  asked  her,  "Did  you 
ever  catch  a  trout  ?  " 

"  No,  I  never  did." 

"  Do  you  wish  to  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do." 

"  Then,"  said  he,  "  we  will  go  up  to  the  old  trout  brook 
to-morrow,  trouting.  Perhaps  we  may  get  a  string.  The 
wind  is  south,  and  I  guess  it  is  a  good  time.  Now,  Miss 
Graham,  I  want  to  consult  your  wish.  I  will  bait  your 
hook,  take  the  fish  off,  if  you  get  any,  and  be  your  helper, 
so  you  need  not  soil  your  hands.  But  once  you  said  you 


SOLOMON  IN  ALL  HIS   GLORY.  371 

wished  to  help  yourself  where  you  can,  and  be  indepen- 
dent. In  that  case  you  will  have  to  take  the  worms,  and 
bait  your  own  hook,  and  take  off  your  fish.  Your  hands 
will  not  smell  nice ;  but  soap  and  water  soon  cures  all 
that,  when  you  get  home.  Now,  what  will  you  do  ?" 

She  answered,  "If  you  will  please  to  show  me  how  to 
bait  the  hook,  and  how  to  fish,  I  will  get  along  alone,  as 
long  as  I  can." 

He  would  show  her.  He  did.  He  showed  her  how  to 
walk  softly,  and  not  jar  the  ground,  and  scare  the  fish  ; 
not  to  let  her  shadow  fall  in  the  water ;  not  to  speak  or 
make  a  noise,  to  fish  cautiously  and  patiently,  and  not 
get  her  hook  caught,  but  if  she  did,  to  break  it  and  tie  on 
another.  He  would  be  near.  There  were  no  snakes  to 
hurt,  no  wild  cattle,  no  danger.  Beckon,  if  she 
needed  help.  His  eye  would  be  on  her.  It  was  a  long 
lesson,  and  a  good  one. 

Roy  did  not  drop  a  line  in  the  water,  but  showed  her 
all  the  art.  She  had  on  light  rubber-boots,  and  a  gray 
dress.  He  took  his  sketch-book  along,  and  she  began  to 
fish.  She  was  noiseless  and  wary,  and  she  caught  them 
fast.  At  first  Roy  thought  she  would  not  fancy  baiting 
the  hook,  but  she  did  it,  and  as  soon  as  they  began  to 
bite,  that  little  witch  took  out  the  speckled  beauties,  many 
small,  but  some  of  good  size,  until  Roy  was  hardly 
pleased  to  see  her  get  along  so  well  without  him. 

He  made  some  outline  sketches  of  her  as  she  fished, 
with  the  winding  brook  beyond  her.  It  was  sport  for 
her,  and  a  heart-ache  for  him.  Not  once  did  she  call 
him,  but  kept  to  her  sport  like  an  old  fisher  that  supplies 
the  White  Mountain  hotels.  She  lost  one  or  two  hooks, 
but  she  soon  supplied  their  places,  and  she  did  not  tie 


372  THE   WILD  AKTIST  IN   BOSTON. 

them  on  with  a  granny  knot  either.  She  had  had  a  man's 
instruction.  It  was  a  weaver's  knot,  and  it  held.  Now 
she  let  her  line  drop  in  the  ripplings.  Now  she  let  it  drop 
in  a  dark,  deep  pool,  like  a  grasshopper.  She  handled 
that  light  pole  like  an  old  fisher.  And  while  she  fished 
like  Isaac  Walton,  she  also  unconsciously  fished  like  Simon 
Peter.  She  stepped  as  softly  as  a  cat.  No  fish  saw  her, 
until  they  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  caught  by  her. 
When  she  had  gone  a  long  way,  and  ought  to  have  been 
getting  tired,  Roy  came  up  and  whispered  that  she  had 
done  enough.  He  looked  in  her  basket,  and  it  was 
another  surprise.  She  had  done  splendidly,  better  than 
he  had  supposed.  They  gave  it  up.  Roy  took  her  tackle 
and  fish,  and  they  drove  home. 

It  was  a  splendid  ride.  When  his  mother  saw  the 
trout,  and  heard  the  story,  she  said  it  was  the  beatermost 
thing  she  ever  heard  of.  Roy  cleaned  the  fish,  and  it  was 
a  good  mess,  enough  for  all.  He  ate  some  of  them,  but 
they  rather  stuck  in  his  crop.  I  am  not  posing  for  ele- 
gance, but  I  must  be  graphic  and  forcible.  This  is  a 
man's  statement.  He  was  as  solemn  as  two  owls,  or 
Deacon  Bedott,  and  he  grew  solemner.  He  had  seen  that 
she  could  get  a  living  out  of  a  piano,  out  of  singing,  out 
of  painting,  and  he  was  almost  afraid  she  could  out  of 
fishing.  One  of  the  old  English  writers  once  said,  "  God 
never  made  an  independent  man."  But  Roy  was  afraid 
he  had,  by  mistake,  or  otherwise,  made  an  independent 
woman. 

The  morning  for  their  return  came  at  last.  Frank 
Wilkie  and  Ned  Foss  had  said  their  "  good-by,"  and  gone 
ploughing.  Miss  Graham  thanked  them  all  for  the 
pleasantest  visit  of  her  life.  Mr.  Bartlett  brought  up 


SOLOMON  IN  ALL  HIS   GLORY.  373 

some  sweet  cider  that  did  not  appear  before  Frank  Wil- 
kie,  and  Miss  Graham  had  a  little  of  that. 

Roy  said  lie  should  be  home  in  June  for  haying,  but 
could  not  tell  whether  his  next  winter  would  be  in 
Boston,  or  where.  Miss  Graham  gave  him  a  very  earnest 
look  at  this,  but  made  no  remark.  She  went  upstairs  to 
complete  her  wraps,  and  they  were  not  long  waiting  for 
her.  Mother  kissed  her,  and  said,  "  God  bless  you,  dear. 
Come  again." 

Miss  Graham's  eyes  were  tearful.  Then  four  solemn 
people  parted.  Roy  and  Miss  Graham  to  Dover  station, 
and  Boston,  and  away  into  the  blue.  Roy  spoke  but 
little.  He  cared  for  her  splendidly.  He  called  her  atten- 
tion to  Hicks's  Hill,  and  Madbury  Station ;  to  Durham, 
and  -New  Market ;  to  the  glorious  apple-blossoms  every- 
where. 

At  eleven,  they  took  a  hack,  and  went,  with  no  other 
passengers,  to  Commonwealth  Avenue.  On  the  way  she 
thanked  him  for  all  his  kindness,  but  h'e  said  he  was  sorry 
he  could  not  have  done  more  to  entertain  her.  Would 
she  grant  him  a  favor?  He  had  something  to  say  to  her. 
Would  she  let  Fred  Annerly  call  at  the  studio  at  two 
o'clock?  Then  he  would  be  sure  the  message  would  reach 
her.  She  would,  and  they  parted  at  her  door.  Fred 
Annerly  called.  Roy  shook  him  heartily  by  the  hand, 
and  Fred  said,  "  Mr.  Bartlett,  please  let  me  know  if  I  can 
serve  you  in  any  way.  I  will  do  it  if  it  is  in  my  power." 

Roy  thanked  him,  and  his  commission  was  to  bear  this 
lettei-,  and  deliver  it  at  once  to  Miss  Graham,  and  to  her 
hand  alone.  He  would  do  it  faithfully,  and  at  once. 
Roy  tried  to  make  him  take  a  five-dollar  bill,  but  it  was 
declined.  No,  he  could  not  take  anything  from  him  ;  but 


374  THE  WILD   ARTIST  IN. BOSTON. 

he  would  serve  him  with  all  his  heart.     Then  Roy  knew 
his  friend. 

Roy's  message  went  at  true  love's  speed  across  the 
Common  and  Public  Garden,  to  her  hand,  and  in  her 
chamber  she  read  it. 

"  Miss  Graham,  I  do  not  know  as  you  are  prepared  to  under- 
stand this,  but  I  must  write  it.  You  have  pleased  me,  impressed 
me,  helped  me,  and  have  been  growing  to  be  the  best  part  of 
my  life,  ever  since  I  knew  you.  Now  I  can  keep  silent  no 
longer,  I  must  speak.  Nothing  seems  of  any  value  without 
you.  Can  you  join  your  life  with  mine,  and  be  my  wife? 
Answer  now,  even  if  you  have  to  ask  time  to  consider.  If  I 
can  be  of  any  service  to  your  uncle  and  aunt,  I  will  gladly  do 
so.  I  wanted  to  ask  you  all  the  past  week,  but  did  not  wish 
to  spoil  your  visit,  or  take  you  at  a  disadvantage.  Please  let 
your  trusty  messenger  bring  my  answer. 
"  Ever  yours, 

"  ROYAL  BARTLETT." 

In  about  an  hour  it  came. 

"  DEAR  ROY,  —  Do  your  parents  know  of  this  ?  and  do  they 
approve  ?  Yours, 

"MARY  GRAHAM." 

In  less  time,  Fred  waited  outside  the  studio  for  the 
answer,  and  bore  it  to  her. 

"DEAR  MARY, — Yes,  they  do.  You  remember  my  father 
gave  you  some  sweet  cider,  and  then  you  went  upstairs  to  get 
ready.  Mother  looked  up  to  me  and  said,  '  Roy,  that  is  the 
woman  that  I  want  for  your  wife.'  It  almost  choked  me. 
When  I  could  speak,  I  told  her  I  would  get  you  if  I  could,  and 
she  said,  '  Thank  God.'  She  said, '  Father,  I  do  not  often  taste 
cider,  but  you  may  give  me  some  on  that.'  They  poured  out 
some  in  two  tumblers,  and  she  held  it  up  and  said,  '  Roy,  may 
you  get  the  woman  that  you  want,'  and  father  said,  '  Good 
luck  to  you,  my  son.'  Yes :  we  will  all  love  you  forever.  O 
tell  me,  Mary.  I  will  wait  in  the  studio.  ROY." 


SOLOMON  IN  ALL  HIS   GLORY.  375 

At  five  o'clock  there  was  a  knock  on  the  door.  Fred 
Annerly  gave  him  a  letter.  Fred  gave  bis  hand  fer- 
vently, but  whether  in  pity  or  congratulation,  Roy  could 
not  tell.  Fred  said  that  no  answer  wras  needed.  Roy's 
heart  sank  within  him.  He  entered  the  studio,  closed 
the  door,  and  was  ready,  as  ever  he  would  be,  to  meet 
joy  or  sorrow.  His  destiny  was  before  him.  He  opened 
the  letter  and  read. 

"MY  DEAR  ROY,  —  You  shall  have  your  answer.  Take 
your  Bible,  find  the  book  of  Ruth,  and  dear  Ruth's  answer 
shall  be  mine.  It  is  the  first  chapter,  and  sixteenth  and  seven- 
teenth verses.  Rest  to-night,  and  see  my  uncle  to-morrow 
morning  at  nine,  in  the  library. 

"Yours  forever, 

"  MARY  GRAHAM." 

With  trembling  hands  he  found  the  book  of  Ruth,  and 
he  read  :  "  And  Ruth  said  :  Intreat  me  not  to  leave  thee 
or  to  return  from  following  after  thee ;  for  whither  thou 
goest  I  will  go,  and  where  thou  lodgest  I  will  lodge ; 
thy  people  shall  be  my  people,  and  thy  God  my  God. 
Where  thou  diest  will  I  die,  and  there  will  I  be  bui'ied  ; 
the  Lord  do  so  to  me  and  more  also,  if  aught  but  death 
part  thee  and  me." 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  murmured, 
"  Thank  God !  thank  God  !  "  and  he  bowed  his  head  upon 
his  mother's  Bible,  and  it  was  moistened  with  his  tears. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

A   CONSUMMATION. 

IP  this  novel,  which  is  one  of  the  truest  books  ever 
written,  had  been  written  by  a  woman,  it  would  have 
bobbed  off  as  short  as  a  rabbit's  tail,  at  the  last  chapter, 
but  it  is  a  male  book.  Whether  Roy  Bartlett  or  Mary 
Graham  slept  well  that  night,  I  do  not  actually  know. 
But  I  do  not  think  they  did.  There  was  a  pile  of  think- 
ing to  do.  Love  is  a  mighty  and  disturbing  force.  I 
know  it  is,  for  I  have  had  a  touch  of  it  myself.  Here 
please  smile.  A  joke.  Better  labelled. 

Then  next  morning,  Roy  went  across  the  Common, 
with  a  bit  of  bouquet  on  his  coat,  looking  so  handsome  that 
people  stared  at  him.  I  met  him  as  he  went  through 
Park  Street  gate,  and  wondered  what  was  up.  I  found 
out  soon,  and  congratulated.  At  three  minutes  before 
nine,  he  went  up  the  steps,  and  was  about  to  ring  the 
bell,  when  the  door  swung  open  of  itself  and  he  entered 
the  vestibule.  The  door  closed  and  Roy  Bartlett  stood 
in  the  presence  of  his  queen.  I  know  novelists  have 
great  privileges,  but  I  was  not  allowed  to  be  present. 
Some  things  are  sacred.  You  can  let  out  your  imagina- 
tion. If  you  think  they  stood  at  opposite  sides  of  the 
vestibule,  and  criticised  the  weather,  I  hope  you  will 
never  read  another  book  of  mine  as  long  as  you  live. 
Mrs.  Graham  kept  guard  in  the  hall,  inside.  A  sermon 

376 


A  CONSUMMATION.  377 

has  two  heads  and  an  application;  good  thin".  Five 
minutes  later,  this  happy  couple  entered  the  hall,  and, 
without  looking  to,  or  for  anything  or  anybody,  they 
passed  through  the  door  into  the  parlor,  and  she  called 
Roy's  attention  to  the  pictures.  It  was  a  good  thing  to 
consider  art  for  a  moment,  and  let  nature  cool  off.  To 
let  the  eyes  dry  and  the  cheeks  subside  from  peonies  to 
blush  roses.  Not  that  they  cared  particularly  for  art, 
just  then.  A  few  minutes  later  they  came  out  and  Roy 
had  a  hearty  greeting  from  Mrs.  Wilson  Graham.  Then 
Miss  Graham  escorted  him  into  the  library.  Kindly  wel- 
comed by  Mr.  Wilson  Graham. 

Roy  took  the  bull  by  the  horns.  He  said :  "  I  have 
asked  your  niece  to  be  my  wife,  and  she  has  consented." 

Mr.  Graham  smiled.  "  How  soon  would  suit  you, 
Mr.  Bartlett?" 

"  The  sooner  the  bett'er." 

Mr.  Graham  laughed.  "My  niece  is  twenty-three  at 
the  twentieth  of  June.  The  autumn  is  a  good  time  to 
marry,  or  next  spring." 

"  Why  not  this  spring,  say,  on  her  birthday  ? "  asked 
Roy. 

Mr.  Graham  was  amused.  "  Well,  I  do  not  blame  you," 
said  he.  "  Mother  and  I  had  been  acquainted  a  long 
time,  but  when  we  found  we  wanted  each  other,  it  did 
not  take  us  long  to  get  ready.  Ten  days,  I  think." 

Then  Roy  laughed.  "  That  is  a  long  time  for  us  to 
wait,"  said  he.  "  About  three  weeks." 

Mr.  Graham  said,  "  Well,  Mr.  Bartlett,  I  will  make  you 
a  proposition.  This  estate  is  not  mine.  But  I  hold  it,  and 
am  required  to  use  it,  as  if  it  was  mine.  You  young  folks 
can  be  united  on  the  twentieth  of  June,  upon  condition, 


378  THE  WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

that  you  come  here  and  be  my  guests,  for  one  year,  with- 
out cost  to  you.  You  can  be  perfectly  at  home,  you  can 
use  the  carriage,  and  the  servants  will  serve  you." 

"  It  is  not  accepted,"  said  Roy.  "  I  shall  be  glad  to 
come,  but  I  wish  to  pay." 

"I  was  afraid  I  should  find  an  objection,"  said  Mr. 
Graham. 

"  Then  let  me  pay  a  fair  bill,"  said  Roy,  "  and  later, 
when  you  give  up  your  stewardship,  you  come  and  live 
with  us." 

Said  Mr.  Graham,  "Do  you  think  my  niece  is  a  woman 
of  good  common  sense  ?  And  am  I  also  such  a  man  ?  " 

"  Most  certainly." 

"  Then,"  said  Mr.  Graham,  "  when  you  understand  it 
better,  you  will  agree  with  us.  After  you  have  been 
married  a  month,  if  you  think  you  must  pay,  I  will  take 
it.  Until  then,  you  may  consider  your  wedding-day  the 
twentieth  of  June,  and  keep  your  money." 

"  I  will  do  it,"  said  Roy,  "  for  you,  most  generous  of 
men." 

Then  Mr.  Graham  touched  a  bell,  and  aunty  and  Miss 
Graham  came  in.  He  at  once  told  them  that  the  wed- 
ding was  fixed  for  the  twentieth  of  June,  Mary's  birth- 
day. She  stole  a  glance  at  Roy's  face  which  made  his 
heart  dance  a  fandango  beyond  anything  they  have  in 
Mexico. 

The  drawing-room  was  visited,  Mr.  Graham  did  the 
honors.  He  led  them  along  before  a  grand  sofa,  before 
they  knew  it,  and,  placing  them,  he  stepped  back,  and, 
looking  them  over,  he  said,  "  there,  my  dears,  is  the  place 
for  you  to  be  united,  and  you  will  make  a  very  handsome 
couple." 


A  CONSUMMATION.  379 

Roy  laughed  and  both  blushed. 

Said  he,  "Now,  Miss  Mary,  you  may  show  your  young 
man  aixnind  the  house." 

She  did.  All  the  chambers,  her  own  boudoir,  which 
was  the  large  front  chamber  over  the  drawing-room, 
which,  she  shyly  said,  might  be  theirs,  sometime,  if  he 
was  good.  They  took  their  time  about  it.  They  went 
into  each  room.  They  sat  and  talked  it  over.  They 
went  upon  the  roof.  They  visited  all  the  rooms  again  in 
succession.  He  found  several  of  his  own  pictures,  some  of 
them  hung  in  her  own  room.  Before  he  knew  it,  it  was 
lunch  time.  They  were  called  below,  where  Roy  had  a 
rousing  greeting,  from  Fred  Annerly  and  Jennie,  his 
wife.  Nor  were  the  cook,  Mrs.  Simpson,  and  her  daughter 
Mollie  forgotten.  Roy  had  his  lunch  with  them,  and 
after  a  little  time  in  the  library,  he  wandered  into  the 
drawing-room,  and  around  into  quiet  places,  with  Mary. 
Then  he  was  escorted  through  the  vestibule  again  and 
went  across  the  Common,  once  more,  to  the  studio.  He 
wrote  a  letter  home,  thus,  — 

"DEAR  FATHER  AND  MOTHER, — You  are  invited  to  my 
wedding  on  the  twentieth  of  June,  at  Miss  Graham's  home, 
on  Commonwealth  Avenue, 

"  Your  son, 

"  ROY." 

He  posted  his  letter.  He  tried  to  paint,  but  he  could 
not  get  ahead  any.  He  made  calls.  He  called  on  Mr. 
Billings,  Mr.  Griggs,  Mr.  Shapleigh,  and  Mr.  Seavey.  He 
took  a  walk.  He  could  not  keep  still.  He  killed  the 
day.  It  was  a  peculiar  day.  Love  is  crazy  business. 
He  was  warmly  welcomed  at  Mrs.  Warren's,  and  after 
dinner,  he  told  them  of  his  happiness.  He  got  rather  a 


380  THE  WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

setback  from  Mrs.  Warren,  who  said  she  had  been  ex- 
pecting it  for  centuries. 

Roy  ate  a  little  dinner,  but  could  not  settle  down  to 
anything.  He  could  not  stay  with  the  Warrens,  nor  in 
his  own  room.  So  he  walked  out,  and  before  he  knew  it, 
he  was  gazing  at  a  certain  house,  from  the  opposite  side 
of  Commonwealth  Avenue.  He  took  a  long  earnest  look. 
It  was  a  condition  to  be  in.  O  the  Grand  Old  Passion  is 
the  strongest  current  a  man  ever  meets.  About  a  woman 
I  cannot  say,  as  I  never  was  a  woman.  If  Pope  had 
said,  the  proper  study  of  mankind  is  woman,  he  would 
have  just  done  it.  Been  and  gone  and  done  it. 

Roy  was  irregular  at  his  rneals  at  Mrs.  Warren's,  but 
Edric  Lyrnan  and  Edward  Stacy  were  there  so  much,  that 
Miss  Sarah  or  Miss  Emily  Warren  did  not  lose  any  sleep 
on  that  account.  If  they  did  on  any  other  account,  they 
might  charge  it  to  that  particular  account.  The  day 
after  his  engagement,  Roy  called  on  his  friend,  Benjamin 
Champney.  Of  course  Mrs.  Warren  might  have  expected 
something  to  come,  but  did  any  one  else  ?  He  would  go 
slow.  He  began :  "  Mr.  Champney,  shall  you  be  at  home 
at  North  Conway  in  August  ?  " 

"  Yes,  probably." 

"Then  I  may  call  on  you,  with  my  wife;  I  am  engaged 
to  Miss  Graham,  and  shall  be  married  soon." 

Mr.  Champney  replied,  "  I  supposed  you  were  engaged 
long  ago,  and  everybody  considers  it  the  most  suitable 
and  elegant  thing  you  could  possibly  do.  I  shall  be  glad 
to  see  you  at  North  Conway,  at  any  time.  Drop  me  a 
line  a  few  days  before,  and  we  will  surely  be  there  to 
welcome  you." 

Alas  for  Roy's  little  secret.     It  had  long  been  expected 


A  CONSUMMATION.  381 

on  earth,  and  was  written  in  heaven  from  the  foundation 
of  the  world.  If  you  cannot  hurl  in  a  little  solid  doctrine 
occasionally,  what  is  the  use  to  have  any.  Roy  came  to 
consider  it,  although,  O  so  sacred,  as  something  the  public 
must  know.  So  he  made  no  bones  about  it.  But  that 
sweet  June  was  a  gusty  kind  of  a  time.  ,  You  ought  to 
have  seen  Miss  Graham  look  at  him.  It  gave  him  a  sen- 
sation. Roy  wrote  to  Jean  McDuffie. 

'•DEAR  JEAN, — My  joy  is  coming.  I  shall  be  married  on 
the  twentieth  of  June.  We  shall  take  the  five  o'clock  train 
from  Boston  and  get  to  Dover  at  7  : 45.  If  you  will  meet  us  at 
the  station,  rain  or  shine,  unless  it  is  an  awful  dangerous 
storm,  we  will  stay  with  you,  perhaps  a  week.  But  I  will 
pay,  or  I  won't  come.  I  will  pay  you  fifty  dollars  for  the  week, 
and  carriage  hire,  and  other  expenses  extra.  Will  you  be 
ready  ?  Yours, 

"ROY  BARTLETT." 

The  answer  came  true  and  hearty,  and  Jean  would  be 
there  to  wait  for  him.  At  last,  things  seemed  to  be  get- 
ting into  line,  and  this  planet  did  not  seem  to  be  quite  so 
panicky  as  it  was.  If  Roy  was  slightly  irregular  to  his 
meals  at  Mrs.  Warren's,  he  was  regular  enough  at  Mr. 
Wilson  Graham's.  He  was  there  once  a  day  at  least, 
except  that  he  went  to 'Dover  once,  and  stayed  over 
Sunday. 

He  called  on  Sam  Ellet,  and  gave  him  an  invitation  to 
his  wedding.  Yes,  Sam  and  Mary  would  come.  It  was 
arranged  that  they  would  stay  at  Mr.  Graham's  two  or 
three  days,  after  the  wedding.  Roy's  father  and  mother 
were  to  remain  a  week,  also,  and  at  the  end  of  that  time 
they  were  all  to  meet  at  the  Bartlett  farm. 

This  programme  was  fully  carried  out.     Sam  and  Mary 


882  THE  WILD   ARTIST  IN   BOSTON. 

had  a  three-days  visit  to  Boston,  and  O  the  rides  they 
had.  One  day  a  picnic  on  the  summit  of  Milton  Blue 
Hill;  one  day  to  the  Middlesex  Fells;  one  day. at  Nan- 
tasket.  Then,  after  Sam  and  Mary  had  returned,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Wilson  Graham  had  Roy's  father  and  mother 
alone  to  entertain.  That  was  easy  enough,  for  Boston 
contains  enough  variety  to  entertain  a  savage  or  a  saint, 
from  a  prayer-meeting  to  a  policy  shop;  from  art  to 
anarchy.  So  these  older  children  had  no  end  of  larks,  and 
did  not  worry  about  the  rising  generation. 

But  I  am  getting  before  my  story.  Roy  arranged  that 
Mrs.  Francis,  who  was  a  young  and  comely  widow,  and 
needed  a  change  after  caring  for  Eli  Bertram,  should  go 
to  the  Bartlett  farm  for  a  visit.  So  she  went  there  with 
him.  She  was  to  keep  house  for  Frank  Wilkie  and  Ned 
Foss,  while  the  old  folks  went  to  the  wedding.  She 
knew  the  story  of  Frank  Wilkie.  So  she  had  her  change 
of  scene,  and  Frank  had  an  awful  nice  time  admiring  the 
widow.  Ned  Foss  was  mightily  interested  in  the  devel- 
opments. His  moustache  was  getting  a  good  start,  and 
it  was  attracting  much  attention  among  the  girls. 

While  the  June  roses  were  coming  out,  all  the  bright 
flowers  were  blooming  in  the  kingdom  of  love.  It  was 
arranged  that  Edric  Lyman  should  occupy  as  Roy's  suc- 
cessor, in  the  Warren  family,  at  which  Mrs.  Warren 
laughed,  Miss  Emily  smiled,  and  I  don't  believe  Miss 
Sarah  ever  shed  any  tears  over  it.  It  was  the  rarest  and 
longest  of  all  June  days.  The  wedding  party  was  a  unit, 
in  the  love  and  best  wishes  that  they  brought.  It  was  a 
new  and  holy  love,  not  built  on  the  ruin  of  broken  hearts. 
Here  are  the  guests  who  came,  glad  and  smiling,  to  grace 
the  wedding  of  Roy  and  Mary,  — 


A  CONSUMMATION.  383 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wilson  Graham  and  relatives, 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Guy  Bartlett  and  relatives, 

Mrs.  Warren  and  the  Mayor  of  Boston, 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Alfred  Stacy, 

Mr.  Edward  Stacy  and  Miss  Emily  Warren, 

Mr.  Edric  Lyman  and  Miss  Sarah  Warren, 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jonathan  Strong, 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Samuel  Ellet, 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  S.  R.  Knights, 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fred  Annerly, 

Mrs.  Simpson  and  Mollie, 

The  coachman  and  servants. 

There  was  also  another  couple  present,  fine-looking  peo- 
ple. Roy  thought  he  had  met  the  man  somewhere.  He 
was  introduced  to  him  as  Mr.  Arad  Phillips,  Mrs.  Warren's 
and  Mr.  Graham's  banker.  That  is,  he  was  president  of 
the  bank  where  they  deposited,  and  was  their  business 
adviser  when  called  upon. 

Miss  Graham's  pastor  was  called  to  perform  the  cere- 
mony, assisted  by  Roy's  pastor  from  Park  Street,  and  the 
Orthodox  minister  from  Dover,  N.  H.  Brides  are  always 
lovely.  It  is  beyond  my  power  to  describe  the  wedding. 
A  healthy  imagination  is  a  blessed  gift,  and  furnishes  the 
best  the  market  affords.  So  please  to  do  justice  to  this, 
the  most  blissful  of  all  occasions.  Life  has  three  great 
crises.  The  first  is  a  little  before  our  time.  The  last  is 
decidedly  subsequent  to  it.  But  with  Roy  Bartlett  as 
groom  and  Mary  Graham  .as  bride,  this,  the  sweetest  of 
all  the  sacraments  of  this  life,  is  entitled  to  everything  in 
the  superlative  degree. 

After  the  ceremony  was  over,  and  all  had  been  pre- 
sented, and  had  congratulated,  there  came  a  lull. 

Like  the  man  who  courted  a  girl,  got  married,  took  his 


384  THE  WILD   AKTIST   IN   BOSTON. 

wife  home,  and  "  went  out  and  sot  down  on  a  rock,"  Mr. 
Phillips  remarked  that  it  was  a  very'  solemn  time.  Then 
they  laughed.  The  servants  retired  to  prepare  lunch.  It 
was  past  noon.  All  were  to  remain. 

Mr.  Phillips  asked,  "  Mr.  Bartlett,  do  you  remember 
when  you  first  saw  me?" 

Roy  did  not. 

"Do  you  remember,  when  you  first  came  to  Boston, 
that  you  said,  in  a  studio,  that  you  wished  to  find  a  board- 
ing place  like  your  own  home  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  said  Roy. 

"  I  was  there,"  said  Mr.  Phillips.  "  I  reported  to  Mrs. 
Warren  that  she  had  better  send  you  a  note,  and  she 
did." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Roy. 

"And  I  have  kept  my  eye  on  you  ever  since.  A  little 
later  I  told  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Graham  of  you,  and  suggested 
that  Miss  Mary  might  study  art  with  you.  And  she 
did,  and  more  too.  I  also  told  Eli  Bertram  of  you." 

Said  Roy,  "  Why,  Mr.  Phillips,  you  have  been  my  guar- 
dian angel." 

"  Hold  on,"  said  he,  "  I  am  not  done  yet.  You  know 
that  Mr.  Wilson  Graham  is  not  the  owner  of  the  estate 
of  which  this  establishment  is  a  part." 

"  I  do,"  said  Roy. 

"  Do  you  know  who  is?"  he  asked. 

"  I  do  not,"  said  Roy. 

"  Then  it  gives  me  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  to  tell  you. 
Your  wife,  Mrs.  Royal  Bartlett,  is  the  rightful  owner. 
She  inherited  it  all  from  her  father,  except  what  it  has 
increased  by  the  good  management  of  her  uncle.  And  her 
first  offering  to  you  is  this  check,  which  I  hold  in  my 


A   CONSUMMATION.  385 

hand,  which  commands  the  bank  of  which  I  am  president 
to  pay  to  your  order  fifty  thousand  dollars.  It  is  on  de- 
posit at  my  bank,  in  your  name.  Here  is  the  bank-book, 
your  wife's  wedding  gift  to  you."  Mr.  Phillips  presented 
it.  "  You  know,  Mr.  Bartlett,  that  you  were  no  fortune- 
hunter,  and  Miss  Graham  wanted  no  fortune-hunter.  So 
we  think  we  have  managed  it  finely.  Your  wife's  estate 
is  not  far  from  a  million,  and  it  may  be  more.  And,  Mr. 
Royal  Bartlett,  I  congratulate  you,  for  I  think,  apart 
from  the  money,  you  are  just  about  the  luckiest  man  in 
the  whole  world." 

Roy  turned  all  the  colors  of  a  dying  dolphin,  as  this 
was  all  unfolded  to  him.  At  the  close,  he  contrived  to 
say,  "  he  would  try  to  bear  up  under  it,  but  to  have  so 
much  of  happiness  and  God's  blessing  thrown  upon  him 
at  once,  was  almost  enough  to  kill  him." 

He  thanked  Mr.  Phillips  and  them  all.  Many  of  the 
guests  were  surprised.  A  fine  box  of  wedding-cake  was 
labelled  for  each  one  present,  only  to  be  the  forerunners  of 
many  more,  sent  out  later.  After  the  refreshments,  Fred 
Annerly  and  the  coachman  were  ready  to  take  the  happy 
couple  to  the  station.  Roy's  father  and  mother,  with 
Sam  and  Mary,  remained  to  have  their  visit  with  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Graham,  at  the  home  on  Commonwealth  Avenue. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

UP   IN    A    BALLOON. 

IT  was  a  short  ride,  that  seventy  miles  more  or  less, 
to  Dover.  If  any  element  of  happiness  was  lacking,  they 
were  too  happy  to  miss  it.  In  the  dusk  of  the  evening, 
they  rode  into  the  station.  Jean  McDuffie  was  there,  and 
his  face  shone  with  joy.  The  carriage  took  them  to 
McDuffie's  Hotel,  and  it  was  a  nice  place.  Mrs.  McDuffie 
met  them,  and  led  them  at  once  to  their  rooms.  It  was 
a  surprise.  The  dressing-case  was  a  bank  of  roses.  On 
the  table  was  a  large  satin  cushion,  and  fastened  upon  it 
were  blush  prairie  roses,  forming  the  names  Royal,  Mary. 
Flowers  everywhere.  Two  of  Roy's  pictures  hung  in  the 
room.  After  they  were  settled,  and  the  toilets  arranged, 
Jean  escorted  them  to  the  tea-table.  Jean  and  his  wife, 
and  Roy  and  Mary.  They  were  happy  in  each  other. 
That  is  the  way  to  be.  "For  no  man  livetli  to  himself." 
Of  course  selfishness  can  stay  around  a  long  time,  but  it 
does  not  lire. 

After  tea,  Jean  showed  them  around  the  house,  and 
they  had  much  to  tell.  So  the  time  flew  away,  and  the 
Dover  factory  bell  rang  for  nine  o'clock.  Jean  said  that 
there  were  some  singers  coming,  and  if  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Bartlett  would  sit  in  their  room,  with  the  light  turned 
low,  they  could  hear  the  music  at  its  best.  The  house 
had  a  wide  hall,  and  a  fine  piano  was  in  it.  Jean  had 
invited  Myra  Pinkham,  and  a  whole  chorus,  that  he  be- 

386 


UP  IN  A  BALLOON.  387 

longed  to.  He  had  told  them  he  wanted  them  to  sing, 
for  it  was  in  honor  of  a  man  who  had  risked  his  own  life, 
and  saved  his,  and  that  brought  the  music. 

Jean  and  his  wife  were  popular,  and  they  did  sing.  It 
got  told  around  town,  that  there  was  to  be  a  big  sing  at 
Jean  McDuffie's  on  the  eve  of  the  twentieth,  and  a  large 
chorus  came,  and  plenty  of  outsiders.  Ned  Foss  and 
Frank  Wilkie  guessed  whose  concert  it  was,  and  they 
left  Canis  Major  to  keep  house,  and  took  the  widow,  and 
went  down  to  listen  outside.  They  kept  their  surmise  to 
themselves.  So  there  was  a  piano,  quite  an  orchestra, 
and  plenty  of  chorus.  Roy  and  Mary  sat  in  their  bower 
of  roses,  and  heard  the  concert  in  their  honor.  The  hall 
was  soon  occupied,  and  by  the  people  in  all  the  rooms 
below,  there  must  have  been  a  large  delegation.  Myra 
Pinkham  could  just  play  the  piano,  and  sing  to  perfection. 

Roy  said  to  Mary,  that  Jean  was  trying  to  outdo  him- 
self. Their  door  was  wide  open,  but  was  guarded,  and 
Jean  and  his  wife  sat  upon  the  stairs.  Jean  announced 
that  the  concert  would  commence  with  — 

THE  SUMMER  MORNING  CAROL  OF  PRAISE. 

•  [SOLO   AND   CHORUS.] 

"  Morning  comes  and  day  is  breaking, 
Night  is  done  and  earth  is  waking, 
All  around  the  joy  partaking 
Wake  a  song  of  praise. 
Birds  are  singing,  flowers  are  springing, 
Incense  bringing,  light  adorning, 
*  Gladness  comes  on  wings  of  morning, 

Full  of  love  and  praise. 

CHORUS  —  Glory,  beauty,  power,  and  blessing, 
Seemeth  heaven  the  earth  possessing, 
We,  the  heavenly  light  possessing, 


388  THE  WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

Gladly  sing  Thy  praise. 
Hallelujah,  Hallelujah ! 
Gladly  sing  Thy  praise,  Amen, 

"  Lord,  I  thank  thee  for  this  being, 
Living,  hoping,  loving,  seeing, 
Light  shone  in  and  darkness  fleeing, 
See  the  sunlight  blaze. 
So  Thy  love  is  shining  ever, 
So  Thy  mercy  f aileth  never ; 
Blessed  be  Thy  name  forever, 
All  my  hope  and  praise. 

CHORUS  —  Glory,  etc. 

"  Lord,  accept  my  invocation, 
Low  I  bow  in  adoration. 
Rise,  my  soul,  in  exaltation. 
Thou,  from  whence  I  came : 
Thou  hast  been  my  habitation, 
Thou  shalt  be  my  expectation, 
O  my  soul  and  all  within  me 
Bless  His  holy  name. 

CHOKUS  —  Glory,  etc." 

It  was  finely  sung.    After  a  few  minutes'  rest,  Jean 
announced  — 

THE  NEW  HAMPSHIRE  SONG  AND  CHORUS. 

"O  beauty  land,  New  Hampshire  hills,  fond  memory  comes  to 

me, 

And  brings  a  song  with  music  sweet,  a  loyal  song  to  thee. 
While  youth  and  beauty,  love  and  home  come  back  again  so 

fair 
That  all  the  past  seems  bright  with  flowers,  so  sweetly 

blooming  there.  ^* 

CHORUS  —  My  dear  New  Hampshire  home,  where'er  my  feet 

may  roam, 
My  loyal  heart  still  claims  a  part  in  thee,  New  Hampshire 

home. 


UP  IN  A  BALLOON. 

"O  mighty  mountains  glowing  light  with  morning's  early 

beams, 

O  beauty  hill-tops  shining  bright  with  evening's  latest  gleams, 
O  ever  changing  wonder-scenes  wherever  we  may  go, 
With  rivers,  lakes,  and  sparkling  streams,  whose  laughing 

waters  flow. — CHORUS. 

"  O  wonder-scenes  of  ice  and  snow,  amid  the  winter  gloom ; 
O  handsomest  of  all  the  world,  the  apple-trees  in  bloom ; 
Sweet  breezes  playing  in  the  grass,   across  the  summer 

plain, 
And  Autumn  loaded  down  with  fruit,  and  piled  with  golden 

grain. — CHORUS. 

"  How  blush  the  raspberries  by  the  road,  inviting  as  we  pass, 
How  sweet  the  strawberries  hid  away  so  modest  in  the  grass : 
What  blackberries  shining  dark  as  night,  and  ripe  enough 

to  fall, 

And  blueberry  bushes  hanging  full  of  sweetness  for  us  all. 
—  CHORUS. 

"  God  bless  thee,  O  New  Hampshire  dear,  my  heart  is  true  to 
thee. 

God  bless  thy  children  eveiywhere,  on  every  land  and  sea ; 

Firm  as  thy  mighty  mountains  stand,  pure  as  thy  winter's 
snow, 

God  bless  thee  while  thy  sweet  flowers  bloom,  and  spark- 
ling waters  flow. —  CHORUS." 

Myra  Pinkham  sang  it  beautifully.  She  is  a  New 
Hampshire  girl,  and  it  was  a  home  song  to  her.  The 
chorus  was  strong  and  the  cheers  outside  the  house,  this 

O 

splendid  June  night,  told  how  well  the  loyal  song  was  ap- 
preciated. Truly  Roy's  honeymoon  was  a  beauty.  The 
moon  was  at  its  full,  and  the  days  and  nights  were  alike 
glorious. 

Then  a  lady  sung  a  queer  song,  to  a  funny  little  minor 
tune.  It  was  the 


390  THE  WILD  AKTIST  IN  BOSTON. 


"POOR  OLD  BACHELOR. 

"  There  is  a  poor  old  bachelor  we  often  see  about, 
Like  half  a  pair  of  scissors  that  has  lost  the  rivet  out ; 
He  is  always  hunting  after  something,  always  gone  to  pot, 
And  he  never,  never  finds  it  when  he  can  as  well  as  not. 
CHORUS  —  He's  a  poor  old  bachelor  because  he  is  afraid, 

When  he  might  be  so  happy  with  a  sweet  old  maid. 

"  His  coat  and  vest  need  fixing,  you  can  hardly  call  them  dress, 
And  those  continuations  O  you  really  can't  express  ; 
From  the  poor  old  fellow's  hat,  full  of  dust  as  it  can  be, 
To  the  poorest  darned  old  stockings  that  you  ever  yet  did  see, 
CHORUS.  —  He's  a  poor  old  bachelor. 

"  The  boudoir  of  a  bachelor  is  a  wonderful  old  lair; 
The  blind,  that  cannot  see  it,  can  smell  it  in  the  air ; 
It  has  no  angel's  visits  to  keep  it  sweet  and  true, 
For  everything  is  crazy  there,  and  everything  askew. 
CHORUS  —  He's  a  poor  old  bachelor. 

"  On  the  coldest  nights  of  winter  he  can  lie  abed  and  groan, 
In  solitude,  to  hate  himself  and  shiver  all  alone ; 
Because  he  never  hunted  for  a  better  way  instead, 
He  ought  to  have  some  broken  crackers,  scattered  in  his  bed. 
CHORUS  —  He's  a  poor  old  bachelor. 

"  The  wise  ones  often  tell  us  there  is  nothing  made  in  vain, 

The  reason  of  a  bachelor  is  not  so  very  plain ; 

Perhaps  to  teach  young  people  to  remember  love's  young 

dream, 

Or  to  occupy  his  bosom  when  you  want  to  freeze  ice  cream. 
CHORUS  —  He's  a  poor  old  bachelor. 

"  So  he  lived  his  lifetime  all  alone,  to  grumble  and  to  mope, 
He  often  asked  the  value  of  a  shilling's  worth  of  rope ; 
As  he  had  no  wife  or  children,  he  did  not  want  to  stay, 
There  came  an  east  wind  from  the  west,  and  then  he  blew 

away. 
CHORUS  —  He's  a  poor  old  bachelor." 


UP  IN  A  BALLOON.  391 

She  sang  it  comically  and  it  was  jolly.  Then  Myra 
Pinkham  sang  "To  charm  the  night  away,"  a  negro  song, 
and  the  chorus  did  their  part.  A  young  man  with  a 
sweet  voice  sang  "The  sweet  bells  of  heaven"  with 
chorus.  Then  a  lady  sang  "  The  birds'  love  song," 
warbling  and  trilling  like  a  bird. 

The  Harrington  song  was  called  for  and  Myra  sang  it, 
and  the  whole  house  sang  the  chorus,  — 

"  O  shine  the  rising  morning,  O  glow  the  setting  sun, 
The  sweetest  spot  between  them  both  is  old  Barrington." 

Jean  called  for  a  Rochester  lady  to  sing  "The  bald- 
headed  man,"  and  requested  all  to  pile  on  to  the  chorus. 
It  was  very  funny,  and  the  lady  made  the  most  of  it. 
But  when  the  four  parts  sang  big  with  piano  and  or- 
chestra, — 

"  O  the  bald-headed  man,  deny  it  if  you  can, 

The  prince  of  all  good  fellows  is  the  bald-headed  man," 

it  was  a  roaring  chorus,  and  somehow  they  managed  to 
accent  it  with  a  bass  drum.  The  boys  caught  on,  and 
the  whole  neighborhood  sang.  It  was  too  good  to  for- 
get, and  the  street  urchins  picked  it  up,  and  roared  it, 
all  the  way  from  Garrison  Hill  to  Sawyer's  mills,  all  sum- 
mer. When  a  countryman  took  out  his  bandanna,  to 
wipe  off  the  great  desert,  he  was  surprised  to  hear  them 
sing,  and  thought  the  devil  had  got  into  the  boys.  He 
did  not  know  it  was  a  part  of  Roy's  wedding  chorus.  I 
am  afraid  this  is  a  digression. 

Jean  McDuffie  said,  "now  we  will  have  two  songs 
more.  One  is, — 


392  THE  WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

"THE  GRAND  OLD  PASSION. 

A  love  song  dedicated  to  all  true  lovers,  old  or  young,  married  or 
single,  all  round  the  world,  by  one  of  them. 

WORDS  AND  Music  BY  J.  B.  WIGGIN.          SONG  AND  CHORUS. 

"/Young  Love  came  down  when  old  Time  was  young, 

And  he  made  all  the  flowers  of  spring ; 
He  started  the  world  in  its  tireless  round, 

And  he  started  the  birds  to  sing. 
CHORUS  —  Beautiful  love,  the  glory  of  life, 
On  angel's  wings  comes  down ; 
Rejoice,  rejoice,  for  the  Grand  Old  Passion 
That  makes  the  world  go  round. 

"  Young  love  he  met  a  man  and  a  maid, 

And  he  gave  them  the  sweetest  pain ; 
He  bound  their  hearts  with  a  silken  thread, 

And  they  never  got  loose  again.  —  CHORUS. 

"  They  lived  together  and  loved  each  other, 

And  young  loves  came  at  their  call. 
They  worked  together  and  helped  each  other, 

And  love  inspired  them  all.  —  CHORUS. 

"  The  twain  were  one  in  their  hearts'  desires, 

As  true  to  love  as  the  sun ; 
To  love  each  other  beyond  the  river, 

Whenever  their  work  was  done.  —  CHORUS. 

"  Their  children  grew  to  be  men  and  maids, 

And  in  love's  sweet  meshes  were  found ; 
They  all  rejoice  in  the  Grand  Old  Passion, 

That  makes  the  world  go  round.  —  CHORUS. 

"  Then  open  your  heart  to  this  beautiful  joy, 

The  sweetest  that  ever  was  found  ; 
The  blessing  of  life  is  the  Grand  Old  Passion, 
That  makes  the  world  go  round.  —  CHORUS." 


UP   IN  A  BALLOON.  393 

Myra  Pinkhara  did  her  best  with  this  song,  and  was 
well  rewarded  at  the  close.  Jean  stood  in  the  hall,  and 
announced,  "Now  we  will  have  the  last  song.  It  is  a 
waltz  song,  'The  Balmy  Sleep,'  a  solo  song,  of  loving  care 
and  protection.  It  is  late.  I  have  travellers  and  dear, 
valued  frfends  in  the  house.  This  concert  is  in  their 
honor.  Especially  this  last  piece." 

Then,  with  prelude  and  interlude,  a  lady  sang, — 
"  O  come,  balmy  sleep,  with  thy  wonderful  healing, 

Like  a  fair  summer  eve,  when  the  winds  are  at  play ; 
O  bear  us  from  care,  all  its  shadows  concealing, 

As  the  thistledown  floats  on  the  light  breeze  away. 
Then  welcome  light  slumbers,  to  musical  numbers, 

As  they  peacefully  flow  on  a  fair  summer  day. 
With  bright  blossoms  falling,  and  mating  birds  calling, 
And  the  music  of  bright  waters  flowing  away. 

"  When  sweet  peace  has  found  you,  and  slumber  has  bound  you, 

And  true  hearts  around  you,  in  safety  to  keep, 
With  loving  hearts  blessing,  and  music  caressing 

Like  angels  possessing,  and  wooing  to  sleep, 
Then  welcome  light  slumbers,  to  musical  numbers, 

As  they  peacefully  flow  on  a  fair  summer  day, 
With  bright  blossoms  falling,  and  mating  birds  calling, 

And  the  music  of  bright  waters  flowing  away. 

"  With  the  bright  land  before  us,  and  the  kind  Father  o'er  us, 

And  the  angels  in  charge,  his  beloved  to  keep ; 
While  true  love  around  us,  with  sweet  bonds  has  bound  us, 

Then  trustfully,  blissfully,  peacefully  sleep. 
Then  welcome  light  slumbers,  to  musical  numbers, 

As  they  peacefully  flow  on  a  fair  summer's  day ; 
With  sweet  blossoms  falling,  and  mating  birds  calling, 

And  the  music  of  bright  waters  flowing  away." 

Some  one  called,  "So  say  we  all  of  us,"  and  you  could 
not  stop  them.  It  was  sung  to  "  America,"  and  they  all 
did  their  best,  in  the  house  and  out,  while  the  bass  drum 
marked  the  time,  so  it  could  be  heard  all  over  Dover. 


394  THE  WILD  ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

They  cheered  and  shouted,  "  Good  night,  Jean,"  enough 
to  wake  up  all  Pine  Hill. 

Roy  and  Mary  laughed  some,  and  they  felt  that  they 
were  loved  and  honored  indeed.  Soon  Jean  was  putting 
things  to  rights,  and  it  was  near  eleven  o'clock. 

Roy  came  out,  dropped  the  night-latch,  and  came  down 
to  talk  to  Jean.  "  Well,  Jeanie,  what  is  the  programme 
for  to-morrow  ?  Is  it  Agamenticus  ?  " 

"  It  is  Agamenticus,"  he  replied.  "  I  have  a  nice,  easy 
two-seated  carnage,  and  span  of  horses.  I  have  Linward 
Waldron  and  Sidney  Wentvvorth  both  here,  on  their  sum- 
mer vacation.  They  are  a  little  past  twenty-one,  about  of 
an  age,  splendid  fellows  as  ever  grew,  both  Dover  boys,  out 
of  our  best  New  Hampshire  stock.  One  will  drive  the  team, 
and  the  other  will  guide  you  up  Mount  Agamenticus." 

"Just  the  thing,"  said  Roy.     "Jean,  you  are  a  jewel." 

"  So  my  wife  thinks,"  said  he,  laughing ;  "  and  so  does 
yours  of  you." 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Roy. 

"  Then,"  said  Jean,  "  if  the  weather  is  suitable  you  can 
take  an  all-day  trip,  and  sketch  as  you  go.  The  commis- 
sary will  be  attended  to,  and  you  will  be  happy."  And 
Jean  sang,  — 

"  Up  in  a  balloon,  boys,  up  in  a  balloon, 
Kiting  round  the  little  stars,  sailing  round  the  moon, 
Love  will  go  beyond  the  clouds,  love  is  kind  and  true, 
Love  will  go  beyond  the  stars,  and  navigate  the  blue ; 
Up  in  a  balloon,  boys,  up  in  a  balloon, 
Kiting  round  the  little  stars,  sailing  round  the  moon." 

Roy  laughed.  He  looked  at  his  watch.  "Good 
night !  "  said  Roy.  "  Time  is  up." 

"  Good  night !  "  said  Jean,  "  and  pleasant  dreams." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

AGAMENTICUS,   A  PILGRIMAGE. 

AT  half-past  six  next  morning  Roy  came  down,  like  a 
son  of  the  morning.  Jean  met  him  gayly,  and  showed 
him  the  little  room  set  for  breakfast  for  four.  It  was 
pretty  as  posies,  and  awaiting  the  arrival  of  Lady  Bart- 
lett,  whom  Roy  soon  ushered  in  to  breakfast.  They  were 
four.  It  reminds  me  of  a  man  who  asked  a  blessing  in 
this  wise,  "  O  Lord,  bless  me  and  my  wife,  my  son  John 
and  his  wife,  us  four  and  no  more."  I  want  to  tell  you 
all  about  this  breakfast;  everything.  If  I  give  you  all 
the  facts  you  have  something  to  ornament.  With  your 
artistic  knowledge  and  fertile  imagination,  you  can  get 
up  a  scene  that  is  a  credit  to  you  and  the  book.  I  do  not 
wish  fiction  too  fictitious.  It  gets  thin  and  uncertain. 
These  people  are  real  people.  They  are  all  alive  to-day, 
and  I  love  them  and  visit  them.  I  have  lived  pleasant 
years  in  Dover.  So  Jean  and  his  wife  sat  opposite,  and 
Roy  and  Mary  could  do  no  less.  There  never  was  a 
kinder,  more  devoted  quartette.  I  knew  Roy  from  boy- 
hood, and  Mary  soon  after  h«  did.  I  never  knew  an  act 
of  their  lives  that  I  regretted.  If  Job  was  a  just  man, 
and  so  good  that  some  people  think  him  an  impossibility, 
an  allegory,  a  poem,  and  a  no-such-thing,  why  may  not 
my  friend,  who  is  the  hero  of  my  book,  be  as  much  of  a 
man  every  way  as  the  nomadic  old  Jew?  It  is  easier 

395 


396  THE  WILD  ARTIST  IN   BOSTON". 

than  rascality,  and  pays  better  every  way.  So  love  and 
gratitude  prepared  the  breakfast,  and  joy  and  thankful- 
ness ate  it. 

Soon  after,  they  were  called  into  the  parlor,  and  were 
introduced  to  Lin  Waldron,  their  guide,  and  Sid  Went- 
worth,  their  driver.  The  time  had  gone  to  eight  o'clock. 
The  supplies  were  aboard.  Mrs.  Bartlett  came  down  in 
a  neat  gray  dress,  and  she  and  Roy  took  the  back  seat  in 
the  carriage.  Jean  gave  them  parting  instructions.  It 
is  anywhere  from  twelve  to  twenty-five  miles  from  Dover 
to  Agamenticus,  according  to  who  tells  the  story. 

"Now  drive  carefully,"  said  Jean.  "Take  care. 
Don't  miss  the  road.  Get  home  by  five." 

It  was  a  red-letter  day.  I  have  been  over  the  road 
again  and  again,  but  not  with  a  bride.  The  young  men 
had  received  their  instructions.  Safe  and  honorable.  No 
devilment  in  them.  It  was  a  splendid  ride. 

When  Roy  wanted  to  stop  ten  minutes  or  more,  to 
sketch  an  outline,  Lin  Waldron  did  the  same,  for  lo,  he 
was  a  bit  of  an  artist.  Sid  Wentworth  told  a  story  that 
was  very  funny,  and  now  our  two  lovers  could  laugh 
heartily.  A  change  had  come  o'er  the  spirit  of  their 
dream,  or  rather  the  dream  had  ended  in  a  blessed 
awakening. 

After  the  usual  episodes  of  a  glorious  June  ride,  they 
came  to  the  old  homestead,  deserted  the  last  time  I  saw 
it,  at  the  west  end  of  Agamenticus.  Sid  took  care  of  the 
horses,  and  remained  with  them,  having  his  lunch  by  him- 
self. This  gave  him  a  little  time  to  geologize  among  the 
rocks.  Lin  Waldron,  taking  the  basket,  preceded  Roy 
and  Mary,  each  with  an  alpenstock.  It  was  quite  a 
climb,  though  not  dangerous.  It  is  called  about  six  hun- 


AGAMENTICUS,   A  PILGRIMAGE.  397 

dred  and  eighty  feet  above  the  sea,  yet  it  is  so  prominent, 
it  is  seen  from  afar,  and  seems  much  higher.  They  were 
not  long  reaching  the  summit,  and  O  what  a  sight  it  was. 
The  day  was  cloudless.  There  was  a  good  breeze  upon 
the  mountain.  Lin  Waldron  sought  a  sightly,  sunny 
place,  in  the  shelter  of  a  boulder,  out  of  too  fresh  a  breeze, 
and  began  to  prepare  the  feast.  Mary  was  delighted. 
There  was  the  ocean,  about  eight  miles  away,  a  mirror  of 
light,  with  white  dots  of  sails.  Away  to  the  west  was 
the  line  of  York  beach,  and  the  rolling  summer  landscape. 
Afar  to  the  east,  the  ocean  dissolved  into  the  eternity  of 
space.  To  the  .northeast  the  farms  and  forests  of  the 
Pine  Tree  State.  They  saw  it  hand  in  hand. 

They  turned  to  the  north.  Mary  said,  "Why,  what  a 
peculiar  cloud  ! " 

"  It  is  peculiar,"  said  Roy.  He  looked  at  her,  and 
watched  the  varying  emotions  of  her  face. 

"  O  what  a  beautiful  day,"  she  said,  "  what  a  mighty 
view  of  the  ocean,  and  all  the  country !  And  that  won- 
derful, wonderful  cloud.  It  is  low  down,  yet  it  must  be 
high  where  it  is,  and  it  has  angles  and  battlements,  and  O 
it  looks  like  a  heavenly  vision,  O  so  white ! " 

Roy  smiled.  He  had  been  on  Agamenticus  before. 
He  looked  in  Mary's  eyes  and  asked,  "Mary,  is  that  a 
cloud  ?  " 

She  looked  puzzled  as  she  gazed  at  it,  and  answered, 
hesitatingly,  "  Yes,  Roy,  it  is  a  cloud,  is  it  not  ?  A  white 
cloud." 

Roy  smiled,  as  he  asked  her,  "  Mary,  what  is  that  great 
mass  that  occupies  the  whole  of  the  northern  part  of 
New  Hampshire  ?" 

She  looked  earnestly  to  the  north  again.     There  was 


398  THE   WILD   ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

the  great  white  cloud.  In  a  moment  more  she  cried, 
"  Why,  it  is  the  White  Mountains!  " 

And  as  she  gazed,  the  depth  of  her  emotion  dimmed 
her  eyes  with  tears.  There  the  great  mystery  shone, 
glowing  in  its  dress  of  winter,  soon  to  be  changed  to  a 
warmer  color.  And  so  our  lovers  saw  and  worshipped. 

I  state  an  actual  fact.  I  tell  you  I  am  writing  a  true 
book ;  I  saw  the  same  sights,  on  a  beautiful  day  in  June, 
and  I  gazed  with  wonder  and  astonishment  at  the  myste- 
rious cloud,  and  I  saw  it  as  such,  several  minutes  before 
they  revealed  themselves  to  me.  I  shall  never  forget  it. 
Two  men,  not  artists  at  all,  were  with  me,  and  they  saw 
the  mystery  only  as  a  cloud,  until  I  declared  it  was  the 
White  Mountains.  And  my  splendid  Roy  and  Mary  — 
for  there  are  splendid  men  and  women  on  earth,  as  well 
as  in  heaven  —  saw  the  mountains  transfigured  before 
them.  Roy  told  me  the  story  in  the  presence  of  his  wife. 
It  is  well  worth  a  pilgrimage  to  see.  They  were  quiet. 
They  looked  love  and  joy  to  each  other,  and  felt  that 
they  were  near  to  each  other,  and  to  Nature's  heart. 
Some  splendid  man  has  said  that  Nature  often  puts  on 
her  finest  dress  to  receive  an  appreciative  spectator.  So 
did  Mount  Agamenticus  to-day.  And  she  entertained 
her  visitors  better  than  ever  did  the  Mount  of  Olives. 
They  heard  a  voice  singing  the  old  song,  — 

"  When  up  the  mountain  climbing, 
I  sing  this  merry  strain,  la,  la," 

and  they  listened.  Lin  Waldron  could  sing.  When  the 
song  was  done,  he  was  near  them.  He  lifted  his  hat, 
made  a  bow,  and  said,  "Agamenticus  will  receive  her 
guests  at  dinner."  There  was  a  cushion  for  Mary,  and  a 


AGAMENTICUS,   A  PILGRIMAGE.  399 

picnic  surprise  on  the  ground.  The  stuffed  chicken  was 
a  beauty.  Roy  cut  it  up.  Lin  had  made  a  cup  of  tea. 
They  had  cold  coffee,  and  a  bottle  of  milk,  boiled  eggs, 
bread  and  butter,  sardines  and  a  lemon,  cake  and  mince 
pie.  Candy,  of  course.  Jean  knew  they  would  have 
mountain  appetites.  And  they  began  to  be  merry.  Yes, 
they  did.  And  they  kept  it  up.  That  dinner  disap- 
peared like  dew  before  the  sun.  Roy  said  it  was  lucky 
there  was  no  more.  Then  Roy  held  up  his  hand  and 
said,  "God  bless  Jean  McDuffie."  "And  his  wife," 
added  Mary,  "  for  I  saw  her  put  up  the  dinner." 

Then  Lin  Waldron  topped  out  with,  "  and  as  Tiny  Tim 
says,  God  bless  us  every  one." 

"  I  accept  the  amendment,"  said  Roy. 

So  that  dinner  was  a  picture  in  memory,  and  a  joy  for- 
ever. They  cleared  away  the  wreck,  and  Lin  packed  it 
up,  much  lighter  than  it  was.  They  sat  down,  and  Lin 
recited  "  The  Burial  of  Moses."  I  have  had  him  do  it  at 
my  house.  It  is  grand.  And  how  appropriate  for  a 
mountain  top. 

"  Now,"  said  Roy,  "  it  is  said  that  the  old  chief  Aga- 
menticus  is  buried  upon  this  mountain  top.  Let  us  walk 
around  and  see  if  we  can  find  his  tomb." 

They  did  walk,  but  like  Moses,  "  No  one  knows  that 
sepulchre,  and  no  one  saw  it  e'er." 

They  looked  long  and  earnestly  at  the  scene,  and  at  the 
mountains  especially,  long  and  lovingly. 

Roy  asked,  "Mary,  is  your  honeymoon  good  enough?" 

"  Yes,  my  husband,  it  is  perfect.  O  God,  thou  hast 
blessed  me.  I  ask  for  no  more." 

"  Mary,  answer  me  one  question.  When  did  you  first 
begin  to  care  for  me,  or  to  feel  any  interest  in  me  ?  " 


400  THE  WILD   ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

She  answered,  "Won't  you  be  proud  and  uppish?" 

"No,"  said  Roy,  smiling. 

"  Will  you  love  me  a  little  more  ?  " 

"  I  can't.     I  love  you  with  my  whole  heart  now." 

She  laughed.  "  Well,  Mr.  Bartlett,  the  first  time  I 
came  to  your  studio,  and  saw  you,  I  made  up  my  mind 
if  you  were  as  good  as  you  appeared  to  be,  I  would  get 
you  if  I  could.  That  was  what  I  took  lessons  for.  Now 
please  don't  take  advantage  of  it." 

Roy  laughed  heartily.  He  said  "  he  was  happier  than 
he  supposed  he  was,  to  be  wanted  and  cared  for  so  long." 

They  "  caet  a  longing,  lingering  look  behind."  They 
left  the  old  chief  Agamenticus,  "alone  in  his  glory." 

When  a  part  way  down,  Lin  let  out  a  locomotive 
whistle,  and  Sid  had  the  team  ready,  while  Roy  made  an 
outline  of  the  old  farmhouse  and  trees.  Lin  and  Sid 
strayed  out  of  sight  a  few  minutes. 

Sid  began :  "  Well,  Lin,  what  do  you  think  of  it  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  is  great,"  said  he. 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Sid ;  "  it  is  the  richest  thing  I  ever 
struck." 

"  My  sentiments,"  said  Lin. 

"  How  long  have  they  been  married  ?" 

"Jean  did  not  say.  He  said  they  were  young  married 
people,  and  we  had  better  not  discuss  marriage,  or  any- 
thing about  it.  My  opinion  is  they  have  not  been  mar- 
ried many  days,  and  maybe  not  many  hours.  They  have 
not  got  used  to  each  other." 

"  Just  so,"  said  Sid.  "  Just  see  her  look  at  him !  I 
hope  my  wife  will  look  that  way  at  me." 

"I  guess  she  will,"  said  Lin,  "from  what  I  hear.  At 
any  rate,  you  are  man  enough,  and  she  is  woman  enough, 
and  I  hope  my  wife  will,"  continued  Lin. 


AGAMENTICUS,   A   PILGRIMAGE.  401 

"And  I  guess  she  will,"  laughed  Sid  Wentworth, 
"  from  what  I  hear." 

Then  they  could  both  laugh. 

"  Say,  Sid,"  said  Lin,  "  I  guess  it  is  a  case  of  love  in  all 
corners." 

"  I  shouldn't  be  surprised,"  Sid  answered. 

They  bade  good-by  to  the  lonely  homestead.  They 
saw  the  family  burial  ground,  beside  the  road  near  the 
house.  They  had  just  about  time  to  go  home,  and  get 
there  at  five  o'clock.  They  all  voted  that  the  day  was  a 
beauty,  and  Lin  Waldron  said  it  was  as  handsome  as  a 
bride.  Sid  laughed,  and  said  that  a  bride  was  the  nicest 
thing  in  the  whole  world;  and  Roy  gave  just  a  queer 
little  look  at  Mary.  She  kept  her  face  straight,  and  was 
serenely  unconscious,  but  it  took  an  effort.  Jean  received 
his  company  back  again,  safe  and  sound. 

As  they  alighted  at  Mac's,  Mrs.  Bartlett  thanked  the 
young  men,  and  said,  'If  each  of  you  have  a  lady  in 
Dover,  that  you  are  interested  in,  if  you  will  call  here 
this  evening,  I  will  sing  you  a  song." 

This  was  a  leading  question,  to  be  acted  on. 

"Will  you  come,  Sid?" 

"Yes,  Lin,  if  you  will.  It  is  a  giveaway,"  said  Sid, 
"  but  I  will  try  it." 

Lin  lifted  his  hat  to  Mrs.  Bartlett,  and  said,  "  I  thank 
you  for  your  kind  invitation,  and  I  fully  expect  the  lady 
will  be  glad  to  come.  If  she  does  not,  I  will  come  with- 
out her." 

"  So  will  I,"  said  Sid  Wentworth. 

"  Come  from  eight  to  nine,"  said  Mrs.  Bartlett,  as  she 
went  up  the  steps. 

They  did  come,  with  two  of  Dover's  daughters,  and 


402  THE   WILD   ARTIST  IN  BOSTON. 

Roy  and  Mary  were  glad  that  these  two  splendid  fellows 
were  having  a  touch  of  this  old,  old  complaint.  Mary 
sang  like  a  bird,  and  played  the  piano  like  a  witch.  Jean 
McDuffie  offered  the  young  men  money  for  their  service, 
but  they  declined  it.  It  was  good  enough  without. 
They  went  on  other  excursions;  to  Garrison  Hill,  to 
Locke's  Mills  with  Jean  and  his  wife,  to  Stonehouse 
Pond,  and  the  diamond  rock  in  Barrington,  and  they  had 
a  picnic  at  them  all. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  twenty-seventh  of  June,  Roy 
paid  his  bill  of  seventy-five  dollars,  which  Jean  begged 
him  not  to  pay,  but  he  would  and  did.  He  said,  "  Jean, 
if  I  am  any  good  to  you,  pay  me  in  love." 

Later,  Mrs.  Bartlett  sent  Mrs.  Jean  McDuffie  a  check 
for  a  hundred  dollars.  Jean  and  his  wife  rode  with  them 
to  the  Bartlett  farm,  where  they  met  Roy's  father  and 
mother,  and  Mary's  uncle  and  aunt,  just  arrived.  Ned 
Foss  smiled  all  over.  Canis  Major  almost  turned  himself 
wrong  side  out  with  joy.  Ned  was  dressed  all  in  his 
pretties,  and  had  a  bouquet  on  his  coat.  He  had  the 
parlor  all  decorated  with  flowers.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jean 
McDuffie  were  ushered  in.  There  were  four  married 
couples.  All  had  just  arrived.  Frank  Wilkie  and  the 
widow  had  welcomed  them,  but  all  at  once  they  had  dis- 
appeared. Ned  was  radiant. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  please  to  take  seats  for  a  moment, 
for  I  expect  company." 

What  was  coming?  A  touch  of  a  bell  was  heard, 
and  Ned  stepped  to  the  front  stairs.  There  was  a  rustle 
of  silk,  and  a  sound  of  people  descending.  He  came  in 
as  marshal,  followed  by  Sam  Ellet  and  Mary,  who  stood 
before  the  great  sofa,  and  between  them  Mr.  and  Mrs. 


AGAMENTICUS,   A  PILGRIMAGE.  403 

Frank  Wilkie.  Frank  had  married  the  widow.  Ned 
announced  the  fact.  It  was  a  surprise.  It  was  all  right. 
But  it  was  so  queer.  Ned  did  the  honors.  He  presented 
each,  and  they  all  said  God's  blessing  was  in  it.  Roy  had 
written  to  Edric  Lyman,  and  Frank  Wilkie  also  had.  So 
Edric  was  well  posted.  These  four  couples  were  here  at  the 
Bartlett  farm,  and  as  they  had  excursion  enough,  they  all 
joined  in  the  haying.  After  the  Fourth  of  July  was  over 
Roy  rode  again  a  conqueror,  to  the  rattle  song  of  the 
mowing  machine  and  help  was  so  plenty  that  it  went 
with  a  rush. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

GRAND    TABLEAU. 

AFTER  Roy  and  Mary  had  been  gone  four  days,  that 
evening  Edric  Lyman  and  Edward  Stacy  came  home  to 
dine  at  the  Warren  home.  They  sat  down  to  the  table. 
Edric  did  not  eat.  He  sat  back  and  said,  "  O  dear,  the 
world  goes  hard,  and  things  don't  suit  me." 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Warren ;  "  does  not  the  din- 
ner suit  you  ?  " 

"  O  yes,  the  dinner  is  very  nice,  what  there  is  of  it,  and 
it  is  abundant,  such  as  it  is,  and  it  is  altogether  splendid, 
like  the  lady  that  presides  over  it,  and  that  is  not  the 
trouble  at  all." 

"  Then  what  is  the  trouble  ?  " 

"  Why !  here  those  two  infants,  Roy  and  Mary,  have 
been  and  gone  and  got  married,  and  ended  that  dreadful 
single  life,  and  I  don't  see  why  poor  Sarah  and  I  can't, 
or  poor  Edward  and  Emily."  Mrs.  Warren  laughed. 
She  said  it  did  seem  too  bad  somehow.  She  was  willing. 
Sarah  and  Emily  tried  hard  to  keep  from  laughing. 
Edward  sighed  deeply,  although  he  almost  laughed  too. 

Said  Edric,  "  I  suppose  that  the  happy  pair  will  go  to 
the  Bartlett  farm,  on  the  twenty-seventh,  and  I  move 
that  we  four  people  be  married  on  the  first  day  of  July, 
and  all  four  go  to  Mac's  hotel  for  a  week.  We  can  go  to 

404 


GRAND  TABLEAU.  405 

Agamenticus.  We  can  run  up  to  the  Bartletts',  we  can 
have  high  jinks  for  a  week,  and  come  back  to  our  splen- 
did mother-in-law,  and  live  happy  ever  after." 

''Second  the  motion,"  said  Edward.  "All  those  in 
favor  of  this  arrangement,  please  hold  up  their  right 
hand." 

Edric,  Edward,  and  Mrs.  Warren  voted  "  yes." 
i  Contrary-minded  was  called.  Not  a  hand  was  raised. 
The  ladies  put  their  handkerchiefs  to  their  eyes,  although 
there  was  nothing  to  cry  about.  "  It  is  voted  unani- 
mously," said  Edric  Lyman.  And  he  snapped  out,  to 
Miss  Sarah,  "  I  guess  you  need  not  cry.  I  feel  as  badly 
about  it  as  you  do,"  and  she  snorted  right  out  with 
laughter. 

Edric  Lyman  had  fun  in  him. 

Said  Mrs.  Warren,  "You  have  done  a  large  amount  of 
business,  now  eat  your  dinner.  Your  soup  is  cooling. 
Pepper  it  well,  and  it  will  do." 

It  was  agreed  that  a  public  wedding  was  impolitic. 
They  would  have  to  leave  out  some,  they  were  so  well 
known.  It  would  include  so  many  of  Edric's  clients,  and 
he  mixed  his  friendship  all  in  with  his  business,  so  his 
clients  were  his  friends,  and  all  the  teachers,  and  the  Art 
Coterie  friends,  and  they  were  so  well  known  in  the 
West  Church  it  was  impossible.  So  they  had  a  family 
wedding.  Now,  reader,  look  and  see.  The  summons 
went  to  Dover,  and  was  a  cause  for  congratulation. 
Roy  and  Mary  just  rejoiced  over  it.  The  first  of  July 
came.  The  Warren  parlors  held  a  select  company.  Not 
selected  for  style,  wealth,  or  any  quality,  but  love  and 
good-will.  Here  are  the  guests,  after  the  wedding,  at 
least : 


406  THE  WILD  ARTIST   IN  BOSTON. 

Mrs.  Warren  and  his  Honor  the  Mayor, 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jonathan  Strong, 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Arad  Phillips, 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Royal  Bartlett, 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Guy  Bartlett, 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wilson  Graham, 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Samuel  Ellet, 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fred  Annerly, 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frank  Wilkie, 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Edric  Lyman, 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Edward  Stacy, 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Alfred  Stacy, 

and  a  few  relatives  and  others.  It  went  off  like  a  sky 
rocket,  like  Dr.  Marigold's  supper.  The  mayor  gave  the 
brides  away.  I  cannot  describe  it.  All  adjectives  fail. 
Here  was  a  room  full  of  white  souls.  Most  of  them 
always  had  been  white.  Later,  they  had  a  Pullman  car, 
and  almost  all  the  party  went  to  Dover.  Some  to  Mac's. 
Some  to  the  Bartlett  home,  and  some  to  Sam  Ellet's.  It 
was  a  happy  time.  They  met  at  the  Bartlett  farm  some 
evenings.  "Edric  Lyman  outdid  himself.  The  wild  artist 
in  Boston  had  been  a  perfect  ten-strike.  Some  people 
are.  Some  people  glorify  everything  they  touch.  This 
good  time  was  not  very  long  ago,  either.  At  the  date  of 
this  book,  they  were  every  one  alive,  and  in  some  families 
the  number  was  even  increased.  So  runs  the  world 
away.  Let  it  run.  It  is  the  best  thing  it  can  do. 
Reader,  I  should  be  glad  to  know  how  you  like  my  story. 
If  you  will  write  me,  state  any  objection.  I  will  do  you 
a  good  turn  if  I  can.  Send  your  address.  Direct  to  "  J. 
B.  Wiggin,  13  Pleasant  place,  Cambridgeport,  Mass." 

Mrs.  Warren's  daughters  live  with  her.     Her  house 
and  heart  are  big  enough  to  contain  her  sons-in-law  also. 


GRAND  TABLEAU.  407 

They  are  rich  and  can  take  care  of  it.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Guy 
Bartlett  are  just  the  same  sweet  honest  souls  as  ever,  and 
their  house  often  shelters  some  splendid  people.  Sam 
Ellet  makes  the  Hoskins  farm  shine,  and  Mary  likes  it. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wilson  Graham  live  with  Roy  and  Mary. 
Fred  Annerly  and  Jennie  are  there,  and  they  prove  that 
God  puts  as  white  souls  in  bronze  as  he  does  in  marble. 
Frank  Wilkie  promised  to  go  to  the  Methodist  church, 
with  Mrs.  Francis,  and,  now  she  is  Mrs.  Wilkie,  he  goes. 
He  has  joined  them,  and  is  one  of  the  stewards  of  the 
church.  He  is  a  splendid  man.  Jean  McDuffie  and  his 
wife  are  prosperous  and  happy.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jonathan 
Strong  are  all  right,  and  he  defers  to  his  colleague,  Edric 
Lyman.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wilson  Graham  are  much,  in  sum- 
mer, at  the  Bartlett  farm,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Guy  Bartlett 
are  often,  in  winter,  at  the  Bartlett  home  on  Common- 
wealth Avenue.  Selfishness  enters  not  into  their 
thoughts.  And  my  splendid  Roy  and  Mary  are  rich 
every  way,  and  they  use  it,  and  they  both  enter  into  the 
spirit  of  Him  who  first  loved  us,  and  gave  Himself  for  us ; 
and  thus  they  exemplify  in  themselves  that  grace  of  lov- 
ing and  giving  which  is  the  crowning  beauty  of  a  glori- 
ous life. 


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